How Did This Happen, The Sequel
by FraidyCat
Summary: Our story continues as Charlie and Don find the legacy of Martinez.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Summary: You should read "HDTH", the original, before you read this. Our story continues, as assorted women come out of the woodwork…**

**Disclaimer: Plese refer to this disclaimer for the duration of this experience: CBS et al, in their infinite wisdom, may claim all profits made by this little story located on a free fan fiction website. (Krumholtz & Morrow are due for big raises, anyway.)**

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**Chapter 1: Miss Me, Much?**

Don had woken up with a headache, and it wasn't getting any better. He had also woken up with the strangest feeling. It was sort of like his cop's "hinky" instinct, but there was something different about it. For one thing, all their open cases were progressing nicely, right now. Of course, that might be enough to indicate "hinky", right there. In addition, however, it didn't really feel work-related. Now, that was definitely hinky in and of itself, because damn near everything in his life was work-related.

Still, when they caught the homicide case that appeared to linked to a smuggling operation, he studied it carefully. LAPD had ID'd the vic as a ring-leader in a well-known – but so far impossible to bust – cartel, and kicked it to the FBI. Now, Don had his team gathered in a conference room, waiting for their assignments.

He knew they were taking turns exchanging looks with each other and staring at him – Don was not usually a hesitant team leader. Frankly, he couldn't really see anything out of the ordinary here yet, either…but that feeling had to come from somewhere. It always did.

He finally sighed quietly and walked around the end of the conference table. The new position enabled him to see out into the bullpen, and he looked out toward it so that he could avoid making eye contact with anybody. "Okay," he finally started. "Megan, David, I want you two…"

Don abruptly stopped speaking and the color drained from his face while his jaw threatened to dislodge itself and hit the floor. His eyes first widened, then seemed to glaze over for a moment. Megan started toward him anxiously. "Don? What's wrong?" She barked a command into the general airspace behind her. "Colby, go get some water!"

As Colby turned to open the door of the conference room, he narrowly avoided being hit by it as it swung inwards. He was surprised to see Director Merrick there, along with two people who had to be official, but it didn't render him speechless, as it apparently had Don. "Director."

Merrick ushered the others in the room and took in Don's gray face – as well as the direction of his eyes. He cleared his throat. "Special Agent Don Eppes," he said, indicating Don with a tilt of his head. "The Team Leader of the unit that has been assigned to this case. Next to him is Special Agent Megan Reeves. This is Special Agent Colby Granger, and seated at the table is Special Agent David Sinclair." He focused again on Don, and spoke succinctly. "These are Agents Andy Carter and Colleen Martinez, DEA. They'll be working closely with you on the smuggling homicide."

After a nondescript choking sound, Don finally managed one word. "_Martinez?_"

The female DEA Agent smiled brilliantly. "No relation, trust me," she laughed. "But that is my real name. Just a coincidence." She broke off her laugh nervously and thrust a hand at Colby, who was closest to her. "Happy to meet you, Agent. I believe you were on vacation when I was here a few months ago in my NSA capacity." After nearly breaking his hand, she glanced at Megan. "Nice to see you again."

Colby may have been on vacation when Charlie was kidnapped and nearly killed by the terrorist he was trying to help the NSA apprehend, but he had heard all about it, since. Not from Don. The Team Leader didn't have much to say about Charlie's sudden false marriage, divorce, and NSA affiliation. But things had still been so messy when he had returned from Idaho – and David from his few days in Vegas – that Megan had taken them out to lunch and provided a synopsis. She even told them that the female agent and Charlie had both severed their ties with the NSA. Then she told them that if they knew what was good for them, they would never mention it. To anyone. Especially an Eppes.

Now, Colby understood the look on Don's face, and he dropped heavily but silently into a chair at the table. She'd joined the DEA? And now they were supposed to work with her? And why didn't anybody mention how hot she was? He and David locked shocked eyes.

Megan was the first to recover. "Agents Carter and…and…Martinez, excuse us, but we had not been informed the DEA would be joining us on this. We're just a little…unprepared."

Merrick crossed his arms over his chest. "This is your notice," he said. "I just found out myself. The DEA has covered a lot of ground on this cartel already, and there is no sense in duplicating our efforts." He spoke gruffly, and didn't really look at anyone.

Don managed to take his eyes off Colleen long enough to look at his boss. "I can't work with her," he stated flatly, and all eyes turned to him.

Colby, for one, was stunned. Don Eppes was the consummate G-man. He worked when he was sick. He worked when he was injured. He worked when he didn't get along with or like anyone else who was working with him. He hadn't had a real vacation since Colby had known him. And now he was standing two feet in front of him, staring at the Director, adamantly refusing to do his job. Colby thought he finally saw Don's breaking point: Come close to getting his little brother killed, and there was no redemption for you.

As if that revelation weren't enough, Merrick's response would have knocked Colby over if he had still been attempting to stand. "I anticipated that," he said. "As you know, we're extremely short-handed right now. However, you do have almost six weeks of vacation and personal time backlogged. I suggest you take some now. Strongly."

Don swallowed, and couldn't seem to look away from the Director. It was almost as if he was trying not to look at Colleen, again. Merrick waited a moment and then continued speaking, still looking at Don. "Agent Reeves, do you have similar objections? The remainder of this unit will work with Agents Carter and Martinez to close this case."

Megan found herself in an unenviable position. Her loyalty to Don and the entire Eppes family pushed her to say "yes, I object". Yet her concern for her remaining team members, David and Colby, left her reluctant to leave them short two people. Reluctantly, she also knew that she actually kind-of liked Colleen – and the guilt of that realization almost sent her over the edge. In the end, she looked at Don, who wasn't looking back, and spoke quietly. "I feel that I need to stay," she said apologetically.

Don finally broke his eye contact with Merrick and looked over at Megan; then at Colby and David, silent and wide-eyed; then back to Megan. He nodded. "It's all right," he assured her. "I know you'll keep the team safe from whatever the hell she really is this time."

Without another word, Don went around the far end of the table, brushed past Director Merrick, and passed through the door. Six pair of eyes tracked him as he stopped long enough at his desk to pick up his jacket, and then strode through the bullpen toward the elevators.


	2. Nothing's Wrong Shut Up

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

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**Chapter 2: Nothing's Wrong. Shut Up.**

By the time Don got to his SUV in the parking garage, he was beyond livid. He jerked open the driver's door and slid behind the wheel, and honestly wondered what it felt like to have a stroke.

He careened out of the garage with no idea where he was going. He just wanted to get away from the FBI building. Before he knew it, he was in Pasadena.

He literally could not believe what was happening.

First, he could not believe that Colleen had joined another federal law enforcement agency. Then, he could not believe that seven months after she was in L.A. as an NSA operative, she was back – and he could not believe his team was being asked to work with her.

Most irritating of all, Don could absolutely not comprehend the fact that she had become more stunningly beautiful than she was. She had let her hair grow a little, and he would swear on his own grave that her eyes were a more intense blue.

It was fine with him if Merrick and everyone else believed he had refused to work with her because he was still so angry, he was afraid he would kill her. In his heart, though, Don knew the truth. He had refused to work with Colleen because he wasn't sure how long he could leave his pants on.

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Charlie stood in front of the blackboard, clutching a piece of chalk in one hand and tilting his head slightly to the right, and studied the numbers.

He was frustrated. This was supposed to be relaxing. He had looked forward to the month-long Winter Holiday break as a time when he could work solely on his cognitive emergence theories. Even though Larry had been back from the great unknown for a few months, and had asked him to go hiking, Charlie had turned him down. Even the draw of Big Bear did not cool his anticipation of some quality time with his work. Besides, Larry and Megan, at last reunited, were still acting like newlyweds – he got the feeling Larry was not too disappointed.

Now that he was finally here, though, it wasn't flowing the way it should. Twice he had caught himself about to make a mistake he wouldn't have made in junior high. He sighed, and regarded the lunch cooler he had packed and brought out to the garage with him, thinking he wouldn't want to break away and go to the house for lunch. His eyes wandered to the clock that sat on the old desk, and he saw that it was only 10:30. He and his father had just had breakfast two-and-a-half hours ago, and then Alan had left for a day of consulting appointments.

Charlie frowned, thinking about that. Art tried to bookend the appointments all in the same day, so that Alan could still only work one or two days a week. Those days were interminably long, however, and getting longer as the firm became busier. Alan would come home exhausted, and be too tired to do much on the days he wasn't working. Charlie needed to talk to his father about that. If it was all right for Alan to fret over Charlie's work habits and whether or not he was eating enough, then turn-about was fair play.

He dropped the chalk in the tray and dusted his hands off on his pants. Maybe just a little snack. He may have over-anticipated, and set himself up for failure. He should regroup, and nothing was better for regrouping than…say, half a turkey sandwich?

Charlie opened his lunch cooler and withdrew the sandwich and a bottle of water. He started for the couch, hesitated, and then brought a baggie of Alan's homemade chocolate chip cookies with him. He curled up on the end of the couch, drawing an old blanket over his lap for warmth and comfort, and tucking his feet underneath him.

As he ate his "snack", Charlie inched lower and lower on the couch. Twenty minutes later, most of the sandwich and three of the cookies were gone, his eyelids were growing heavy, and he kept jerking his head up from his chest. He had no idea why it kept ending up there. When aiming for the chest didn't work, his head decided to exercise his neck the other way, instead. He had just slumped as far back into the couch as he could, deliciously warm and satisfyingly fed, when the garage door burst open with such force it slammed back against the wall.

Charlie jerked his head up again and stared, disoriented and frightened, as Don stormed into the room looking as if he wanted to tear Charlie's head off. Charlie involuntarily tried to push back further into the couch, and Don dropped heavily next to him. His brother wasn't looking at him, but at Charlie's hands in his lap. One still held the baggie of cookies, and the other clutched one or two remaining bites of sandwich.

Don reached out and snagged the cookies. "Give me that," he growled. "I want a damn cookie." He shoved one in his mouth and regarded the sandwich. "Ga 'nuther?", he demanded, his mouth full.

Charlie's wide eyes looked down at his hand. In all of his life, he had never seen Don like this. "Uh…", he stammered, and held out his hand. "You can have what's left? Or, or… I'll make you one…" He made a slight move as if to get up, and Don actually snarled, scaring him into stopping.

Charlie swallowed. "Is…something…" He stopped. _Obviously_ something was wrong. Don was not on Holiday break for a month – he should be at work, not red-faced and angry with his mouth full of chocolate chip cookies in Charlie's garage. Charlie tried to think of another way to ask. "May I help you?", he finally almost whispered, lamely, sounding and feeling like a retail salesman.

Don shoved himself off the couch abruptly, abandoning the cookies. "Nothing's wrong. Shut up, Chuck." Even out of the corner of his eye, Don could see that Charlie had paled and flinched, as if Don had hit him. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Great. Just great. Exactly what he wanted to do. Charge into his brother's garage during his first day of vacation, steal his lunch and hurt his feelings.

A grunt of self-annoyance escaped him and he strode to the nearby blackboard Charlie had abandoned. He studied it silently for a while, and Charlie did not interrupt him. At length, Don whipped around and stared directly at his younger brother. "Let's leave," he said, crisply.

Charlie's mouth dropped open. "Uhh?"

Don advanced on him like a tiger. "Now. I mean it. You shouldn't spend your entire vacation holed up in this garage. We could get out of town. Go someplace warm."

Charlie felt as if he had fallen down a rabbit hole. "But…it is warm. It's L.A. And you're working. And…both of us? Together? At the same time?"

Don stopped in front of Charlie and crossed his arms over his chest. "What the hell does that mean?", he countered, his tone less than friendly.

Charlie swallowed again and wished their dad was home. Even though he knew he wasn't, he still glanced beseechingly at the still-open door, then back at Don. "Noth…nothing. It's just that we don't take a lot of pleasure trips together. Not that you seem all that pleasant, right now." He regretted being brave enough to add that last sentence when Don scowled and turned to walk out the door.

Charlie scrambled to get his feet under him and slid off the couch, dropping the last remnants of turkey. "Wait," he called to his brother's back. "Why are you mad at me?"

Almost to the door, Don marveled. Charlie had found a way to put the wounded puppy look into his voice – he didn't even have to use his eyes, anymore. He forced himself to calm down and turned slowly. "I'm not," he admitted. "You're just the one who's paying for it right now. Sorry."

Charlie shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Paying for what?", he asked, confused. "Tell me what's wrong."

A gleam snuck into Don's eye. "I'll tell you in Maui."

Charlie balked. "Don. This is crazy. I've got work, you're upset, just tell me…"

Don interrupted. "Maui. That's the deal. Fire yourself, or give yourself a leave of absence or something. Be your own man."

Charlie shook his head a little. "Don…"

Don let the mask on his face drop, so that Charlie saw his true despair. "Then be my brother," he almost pleaded, softly.

The quiet words hit Charlie harder than a hammer, and seemed to echo in the garage, bouncing between blackboards. His knees almost buckled, but he found his strength, and even a little extra. He smiled at Don. "Maui. I want to go on one of those helicopter volcano tours."


	3. Of Phone Calls and Stalkers

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

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**Chapter 3: Of Phone Calls and Stalkers**

Charlie was losing the argument.

He was trying to convince Don that they actually had time to pack, and did not have to leave for the airport right away. He was trying to convince Don to make reservations, first. The two of them stood in the garage, Don's responses to Charlie's proposals becoming more monosyllabic, and angrier. Charlie felt like a koi out of water. He had never seen Don like this.

He sighed in relief when the cell phone lying on top of the desk rang, even though he recognized Amita's ringtone. Usually, their conversations were stilted, painful, brief – and left him wishing he could just find the equipment to end it once and for all. Surely the calls didn't leave her feeling any better. In fact, she was often crying when she hung up on him. So he generally greeted that ringtone with trepidation. Today, however, he welcomed the opportunity to stall Don.

He walked to the desk, picked up the phone and flipped it open. "Hello, Amita. How have you been?" He turned to lean on the desk and saw that the name had the desired effect: Don was staring at him with morbid interest and wide eyes. Charlie dropped his own gaze to the floor, and listened silently for a few seconds. "And are you prepared for finals?", he asked, politely. "I know MIT operates on a slightly different schedule than CalSci."

He listened some more, tracing "figure 8s" on the cement floor of the garage with his toe. His mind was divided – he was still trying to figure out how to talk some sense into Don. Suddenly, Amita commanded his full attention, and he stiffened slightly and frowned. "Excuse me? I'm sorry, I think the connection got fuzzy there for a second."

Charlie listened for another 30 seconds – he kept track with the second hand on his watch – before he pushed off the desk entirely and stood in front of it. "Hang on a moment." He dropped his hand to his side and looked at his brother. "Don. Go inside and call the travel agent Dad and I always use – let her set something up, please. Her business card is on the cork bulletin board in the kitchen – Andrea something. She has my credit card number on file, if you need it."

Don blinked and started to protest automatically, head shaking. "Ch…"

He fell silent when his little brother's eyes shot daggers at him across the room. "Please, Don." His voice cracked a little at the end and he sagged back against the desk.

Don could take a hint.

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_Damn_, Don thought, as he searched the business cards on the bulletin board for an Andrea something at a travel agency. _That's another thing Colleen and the NSA messed up._ Charlie and Amita had finally been getting somewhere when they blew it all out of the water.

After over-hearing what Don and Charlie thought was a private conversation in the hospital, in which Charlie expressed his own doubts and pain about the relationship, Amita had accepted a job offer from MIT. She had come by the house only once after Charlie got home from the hospital, to say a brief 'good-bye' to everyone. She had left for Massachusetts two weeks after CalSci's finals last June, as soon as she was finished grading.

Still, Don mused, as he peered at Andrea's card and punched her number into his own cell, the two of them could not let each other go. He knew that there had been other calls in the last six months. Most of the time, Amita called Charlie, but Don suspected that Charlie was the instigator sometimes, himself. They probably e-mailed, too. His brother still wasn't "normal", after his life had literally been blown apart, and Don worried that he never would be. He was quiet, and easily distracted, and sad – especially after one of these phone calls. Don and Dad should have insisted that he do something relaxing this break, even before Colleen re-entered the picture. He was only going now because he was convinced Don was losing it. Don growled lowly into the phone. He was a terrible brother.

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After the arrangements had been made, which took at least 15 minutes, Don sat alone at the kitchen table for another 10, watching the back door. He glanced at his watch again. Surely the phone call was over by now! Maybe he should go back out to the garage. He definitely needed to go home and pack.

He was just starting to stand when the door opened and Charlie entered, his face blank and expressionless, offering no clues. He closed the door behind him and stood at the end of the table. He looked at Don. "Did you call Andrea?"

Don sank back in the chair and nodded. "She got us on a flight at 6 in the morning. There wasn't enough notice to rent a condo, or a house, of course…but she managed a two-bedroom kitchenette suite in a hotel she says is nice."

It was Charlie's turn to nod. "Then it is. We can trust her. How long are we staying?"

"Well, she booked us for six nights, but we can change that when we get there, if we want to stay longer. We might have to change rooms, or something…." Don stopped talking. Charlie was looking at him as if he'd grown another head.

"You think you might want to stay _longer_ than six nights? Away from the job? With me? On vacation?"

Don bristled, and at the same time felt guilty. When Charlie found out that he was making them both run from Colleen, he'd be lucky if Charlie stayed at all. But he had promised to tell him the truth in Maui. "I need to get away," he just mumbled, and tilted his head a little. He hadn't mentioned _when_ in Maui he would tell Charlie.

Charlie nodded again and sighed a little. His eyes flickered around the room, as they were wont to do, these days. Charlie was always on the alert now, looking for danger, and it broke Don's heart. "Well. Let's go grocery shopping, and make Dad a nice dinner. All of his favorites. We can stop by your place so you can get your things – you might as well stay here, tonight."

Charlie didn't sound like a man about to go on a Hawaiian vacation of undetermined length. Don fished for reasons why – besides the obvious one of thinking his brother might have lost his mind. "How's Amita? Seemed like a long phone call."

Charlie's eyes darkened as he looked at Don soberly. "Tell you what," he finally answered. "I'll tell you in Maui. Right after you tell me why the hell we're there."

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She sat in the rented Oldsmobile almost a block away from the Craftsman and watched them through her binoculars. She still didn't understand why the brother was there. She had timed her visit to the States to coincide with Charlie's break from the university – it wasn't that hard to discover when that would be. She had watched his father leave early this morning, watched him disappear into the garage, watched the brother show up almost three hours later.

He had stayed almost an hour, going into the house alone for a while before Charlie had joined him there. Now, the two of them were coming out together, and climbing into the brother's car.

She would continue to watch the house until she had to leave to pick up her son at the airport. They never traveled together – it was a long-standing habit, taught to her by her father. She honored him in his death, as she had honored him all his life.

She also mourned her husband, and knew that to do this properly would take patience. That would be difficult. The American had taken almost everything from her, and she burned to make him pay. She wondered briefly if the brother would leave before she and her son made their move.

Not that it really mattered.

She would gladly kill them both.


	4. This Guy is Bad News

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

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**Chapter 4: This Guy Is Bad News**

Manuel Cortez, Jr., was excited.

His mother had tried to "sissify" him his entire life, refusing to let him join his father and grandfather in the family's business enterprises at 16, when he had become a man. The older men had learned early on to give Sophia her way on this. Manny's had been a difficult birth, and he was the only child Sophia and Manuel shared. She pointed out, rightfully so, that the Martinez legacy would end, if they sacrificed Manny. Both of her sisters also had only daughters, as her father had.

Still, on the sly, both his father and grandfather had taught him things.

Sophia was passionate about family, and she had encouraged the boy to spend time with his grandfather when he was in his retreat in the mountains; those rare times when Jorge Martinez was relatively safe, and at rest. As her father had grown older and his health failed, the weeks at the retreat increased. Manny stayed with his grandfather often. Although Sophia did not know it at the time, as soon as the boy had turned 16, they had begun a formal education in Terrorism 101.

Manny had long been a rapt audience to the political views of his family, but now he learned more specifically the uses for terrorism. There was a market out there for a good organization, and the Martinez family was well-respected.

His father joined in teaching him practical skills. Manny had been firing weapons of all kinds for years – fully automatic, semi automatic, even revolvers. Now, he learned more about marksmanship. Within months, he had his first lesson with an air-to-ground missile, and by the time he was 18, he was making bombs powerful enough to destroy six city blocks.

Those were just back-up skills, he had decided — things everyone should know. His favorite lessons, and stories, by far, involved torture. This was his father's specialty, and he passed his love of pain onto his son.

When his father and grandfather had been brutally murdered by the Americans almost seven months ago, 19-year-old Manny had stood before his mother and come clean. He had told her of his education, experience, and the desires of his heart. He had sworn to her that he would leave their country, and avenge his family.

To his almost complete surprise, after a few moments of silence, Sophia had agreed – on one condition. She was her father's daughter, and was not without skills, herself. For years, she had been instrumental in the intellectual work of the cartel – in the research and planning stages of their commitments. In her black widow's garb, she had lifted herself from the chaise and grasped his hands with a firmness that surprised him. Her gray eyes burned through the lace veil into his own. "I will help," she stated, and he knew that her word was law. "You and I shall avenge them together."

Finally, months later, the plan was about to see some real action. One of the NSA operatives had been identified and traced. He lived under a very effective cover story — a university professor. Manny's mother had experienced more difficulty locating the female operative, and had finally agreed that they could start with this one. Manny had her full permission — no, her order — to extract the information of the other operative's whereabouts from him, before he killed him. He was to use any means necessary, and as Manny fidgeted in his seat in the aircraft, approaching Los Angeles, he grew more and more excited.

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Colleen and Megan were alone in the conference room, perusing each other's files. They were looking both for duplicate information, and anything unique each agency may have discovered. The DEA had been tracking this dealer's organization for a while, and Megan had quite a stack in front of her. On the other hand, the FBI had only caught the case that morning. Even with all the information forwarded to them by LAPD, Colleen's pile of files was dismally small. She learned virtually nothing – not that she had expected to.

Agents Carter, Granger and Sinclair were out the of office, interviewing a witness. Soon, Colleen was tapping the fingers of one hand on the table in boredom and nervousness. With the other, she clicked a ball-point pen repeatedly.

It didn't take an expert to profile her, and Megan glanced at the woman, not unsympathetic. Colleen was once again being put in a really awkward position by her government employer. Agent Martinez – Megan shuddered a little, just thinking that name – was staring blankly at the far wall.

The FBI agent quietly closed the folder in front of her and cleared her throat. "Sorry. We just caught the case this morning."

Colleen jerked, startled, and looked at Megan as if she had forgotten she was there. She reddened, slightly. "Oh. Oh. I know…don't worry about it." At Megan's friendly smile, Colleen attempted to find her equilibrium. "So," she started. "Don looks good." She heard her own words, and her blush deepened. _Holy crap_, she thought. _That was subtle._

Megan's tone was uninterpretable. "Yes," she answered. "He does."

Colleen rushed on. "Healthy, I mean. He's all recovered from his injuries." Megan just nodded. Colleen's choices were continuing to talk or taking out her weapon and shooting herself in the head. She actually considered the second possibility, briefly, before she pulled out her million-dollar smile. "And Charlie? He's well?"

"Physically," answered Megan, truthfully, and Colleen's smile faltered.

"Is something else wrong?"

Megan sighed. "No, not really…it takes some time to recover emotionally from the kind of trauma Charlie experienced. He's doing all right – he went back to work full-time when the new school year started. He's understandably reluctant to do much consulting, though."

Colleen sat silently until the vision of Don in his tight jeans made the room unbearably hot. _This was stupid_, she told herself. _I was an idiot to think I could avoid seeing him when I was working with this office…and it's just my luck that they actually assigned his team to the case! _She suddenly jumped up and looked apologetically at Megan. "I'll be right back," said Colleen, heading for the door of the conference room. "I need a drink."

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Charlie stared nervously over Don's head out the kitchen window for a moment, jiggling his keys in his hand nervously. His eyes flicked to Don. "So. We should marinade the tri tips for a few hours, at least. Do you remember Dad's recipe?"

Don paused at the table, his hand in the grocery bag, and looked up with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'do I remember Dad's recipe'? I thought you wanted me to do the grilling."

"I do," Charlie assured him.

Don scowled. "You have to do _something,_ Chuck. This dinner was your idea."

Charlie started across the kitchen. "I will," he bristled. "I am. Marinade is part of the grilling experience. I was just offering to help." He reached the dishwasher and opened it, and began transferring glasses from the machine to the cupboard directly in front of him. "See," he continued, petulant. "I'm emptying the dishwasher."

Don turned back to the bag, but not before he saw Charlie glance out the window again. He withdrew a bag of salad greens. "Are they clean?", he couldn't resist teasing.

Charlie made another sound of protest. "Yes," he hissed. "And then I need to do some laundry, if we're going away for a week. Plus, I'm sure Dad has some. I want to leave him set up for the next couple of days – work is taking a lot of him, lately."

Don frowned at the vegetable bin in the refrigerator, having just placed several zucchini there. "Still? Art needs to lighten up on him. Maybe we should call that lady back, and get three tickets."

"I thought of that," Charlie answered. "He won't go. If they get this client he's meeting with at lunch today, it's a huge job – it will be a lot of work, but maybe actually less, for Dad. They can drop some of the smaller clients for a while, he'll have less meetings. I think. He won't leave while that is up in the air."

Don turned to return to the bags of groceries. Now he was starting to worry about leaving his Dad here. Surely he wouldn't have time to drop by the office to say hello to the team, and run smack into Colleen, would he? His annoyance flared again, and he almost growled at Charlie. "Dishes and laundry. That's great, Charlie, but I am not making this meal by myself. You are going to help. You know I hate cooking."

"I intended to put together the strawberry glaze for the angel food cake," defended Charlie again. "I know how much Dad likes that. I've seen him make it enough times."

Don froze, loaf of French bread in his hand, and looked at Charlie. The dishwasher was closed, now, but his brother stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring out the window. "You've _seen_ him make it?", he asked, incredulous. "You've never done this before yourself?"

Charlie turned away from the window, looking a little chagrined. "That's why I threw in the ice cream. Back-up." He tried to stand a little straighter. "I can make garlic bread. And salad."

Don groaned lightly and thrust the loaf of bread in Charlie's direction. "Sold. I guess."

Charlie moved to take the bread and reached into one of the bags to help put things away. The two worked in a silent, sometimes awkwardly coordinated ballet of movement in the kitchen, for a while. Finally, Don caught Charlie looking out the window again and called him on it. "What's wrong with you? Are you expecting company, or something?"

Charlie ran a hand through his curly hair and looked at him sheepishly. "No. I'm sorry. I think your…uncharacteristic behavior…today, has made me nervous. Ever since we left for the store, I keep feeling like somebody is watching us. It's stupid."

Don came up behind him and looked out the window himself. He didn't see anything or anyone out of the ordinary. He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. "Looks okay to me," he assured him. "We have to go back to the grocery."

"What? Why?"

It was Don's turn to look embarrassed. "We forgot the tri tip."


	5. Most Injuries Occur in the Home

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

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**Chapter 5: Most Injuries Occur in the Home**

Ordinarily, Alan would be thrilled to come home after an almost-11 hour day to both of his sons' vehicles in the driveway. Tonight, however, it just annoyed the hell out of him.

He parked on the street and juggled his briefcase, keys, and several rolls of architectural plans for a while before he swore softly and threw several rolls back into the car. He would send Donnie back out after them. It would serve him right for parking that behemoth SUV in the driveway, and relegating his own father to the street.

He sighed and grumbled under his breath as he approached the house in the near-darkness. Ungrateful spawn hadn't even turned on the porch light for him. Charlie had installed one of those motion-detector lights for a while last year, but the neighbors had complained because it came on every 3.2 seconds all night long and shone in their bedroom window. So the genius had taken it down, instead of finding a new place to put it, and complicated his sin by never remembering to turn on the damn porch light.

Alan was tired, and cranky, and hungry – and still had several hours of work ahead of him before Art went in for the Big Sell in a couple of days. Alan had planned on doing the bulk of the work tomorrow, but just before he left the office, they got a call from one of their repeat clients in Sacramento, and now Art wanted him to go see the guy tomorrow and determine whether or not they should bid on his new project.

Almost at the kitchen entry, he shook his head angrily. This consulting gig was starting to remind him why he had retired in the first place. If Art got a commitment from their big prospect on Wednesday, Alan would be able to cut back a little. If Art didn't, Alan was seriously thinking about pulling out and 'retiring' again. This was ricidulous. He wasn't as young as his sons anymore, he couldn't keep this up for long.

He shifted the load in his arms a little so he could grope in his pocket for his keys. After a myriad of lectures from Don, they never left the doors unlocked, anymore. With a grunt of triumph, he snagged the keys at the same time he heard a rustling in the bushes near the door. He lifted his head and started to turn around. He didn't get far before the butt of the gun connected solidly with his head, and dropped Alan where he stood.

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The brothers were both in the kitchen again when they heard an odd scratching at the door. Charlie half-turned from the counter where he was slicing vegetables for the salad and looked at Don, standing at the table, covering a platter of freshly-grilled tri tip with aluminum foil to keep it warm. "Just in time," he smiled in relief. "Don, that's Dad. He's probably got his hands full again, let him in."

" 'kay." Don crossed the few steps to the kitchen door and pulled it open, completely unprepared for his father to fall unconscious through the doorway like a felled tree. Slightly taller and heavier than Don, Alan toppled him over like a bowling pin. Don yelped and clutched at Alan. "Dad! Dad!" He scrambled to get out from under him and grabbed at his father's head, growing more terrified as he felt something warm, and sticky oozing between his fingers. Still largely pinned on the kitchen floor by his father's dead weight, Don kept yelling. "Charlie! Call 9-1-1!"

Charlie had turned at the first yelp and dropped the knife on the floor. He had stood glued-in-place ever since, unwilling to fathom the tableau unfolding before him. He heard Don yelling at him again, and reached into his pocket for his cell – which was in the living room, on the table in front of the couch. Panicked, he rushed toward the door, instead. The kitchen extension of the house's landline was mounted on the wall near the door.

Don had almost gotten free of his father when he saw Charlie charging toward them. At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move in the doorway. He started to turn his head toward the movement when he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet ripping from a gun with a silencer attached. The round whizzed by his head, and Don instinctively ducked. Then he heard Charlie exclaim in surprise and pain, and saw his brother crash to the floor just a few feet away from him. Now Don was yelling Charlie's name again, watching him writhe on the floor and draw his legs up to his chest. Don was crawling as fast as he could toward him, slipping in both his father's and his brother's blood, when something hard hit him over the back of his head, and he toppled over sideways, as unconscious as Alan.

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"Shut him up," Sophia ordered as she entered the kitchen behind the two local thugs she had hired – men who were still loyal to the Martinez organization. "He will alert the neighborhood."

She referred to Charlie, who still lay whimpering on the floor, and now tried to back away from the strange men approaching him. At the same time, he made demands of them – something even he himself found relatively stupid. "Mmmyy brother," he shuddered, "fffaather…". Blood loss was combining with the experience of the last five minutes to make him shocky, and he was shivering.

"When you have secured him, bind his wound," Sophia instructed. "We need him alive until I get the information I want. We will take the brother. He may prove useful, himself. Secure him, as well."

While her two silent henchmen did as they were told, each gagging a brother and withdrawing handcuffs and short lengths of rope from their pockets to restrain hands and feet, Manny stepped out from the corner of the kitchen, behind his mother. He held the silenced weapon in his hand, and now he pointed it at the still-unconscious Alan. "I will dispose of this one," he offered, and Charlie made a noise of protest behind his gag.

Sophia reached out and stayed Manny's hand. "No," she commanded. "You will show proper respect. He is a patriarch."

Manny looked at her, questioning. "Mama? We are not taking him also, are we? And why must we respect him? He raised the son who killed my father, and my grandfather."

Sophia looked at Manny with love, but she held her ground. "It is not right," she answered, simply. She peered around the kitchen, and saw the opening that led back to a laundry and utility area. "He saw nothing. Bind and gag him, then drag him back there, away from easy discovery. When someone finds him, he will be able to tell them nothing. Besides, they will be dead by then, and we will be…wherever the woman is. When we eliminate her, our job will be done, and we may return to our country."

Manny was disappointed. He had gotten to shoot someone, but he was really hoping for his first kill. He saw the steel in his mother's eyes and shrugged. His first should not be a helpless old man, anyway. He obeyed his mother.

While he was dragging Alan toward the back, one of the other men helping, Sophia stood thinking. The third man stood over Don, awaiting further orders. "Search his pockets," she finally decided. "If we are taking two of them, we will need a bigger vehicle. He was driving the SUV." He bent to do as he was told and soon straightened with Don's keys in his hand. Sophia smiled. "Good. Back it closer to the door, over the lawn, so no-one will see us transfer them."

The man left quickly through the kitchen door, and Charlie found himself alone – or, at least, the only other one in the room who was conscious – with Sophia. She smiled at him, and he stared back in terror. Sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down into his eyes. His breathing was rapid, and shallow, and although he didn't know it, he would soon pass out himself. Through his haze of pain and shock, though, he had heard and understood everything.

He was looking at the daughter of Jorge Martinez, and she was going to kill him.


	6. Awakenings

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

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**Chapter 6: Awakenings**

Charlie woke when they hit the first pothole, disoriented. His body jerked, and waves of pain radiated out from the bullet wound in his lower leg. He moaned against the gag and tried to push his upper body backwards, away from the offending limb. He felt something solid and warm and unmoving behind him.

He froze then, and tried to make himself open his eyes. They must be shut, because it was so dark. He tried to squelch building panic and figure out where he was. When he squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, he decided they must have been open all the time. Dark, then. Darker than just ordinary nighttime would account for. So dark, he found himself thinking with an odd sense of detachment, it was a shame he didn't have a migraine; this was the kind of absolute darkness he pursued, at those times.

Memories of the scene in the kitchen crashed over him in waves, then. He could hear the roar of movement, and knew that he was in the cargo area of Don's SUV. He brought his hands, handcuffed behind his back, up as far as he could and made two discoveries. One was that the thing he was lying next to was another body. That had to be Don. The other was that some kind of blanket….or….tarp?...covered them completely, providing camouflage – and darkness.

He twisted back against Don further, ignoring the protest of his injured leg, gritting his teeth against the pain. He grasped out blindly with his fingers until he could twist them in the fabric of Don's shirt. He felt a button, determining from that that Don was facing his back. Charlie latched on to the button in fear, worrying it with his fingers, waiting for the tactile feeling of the button to ground him, and slow the beating of his heart.

He felt so many things at the same time he had trouble identifying them. First, there was an overwhelming sense of relief. Don was unconscious, hurt and restrained – not exactly in a position to help Charlie – but the little brother took great comfort in the feel and scent of his big brother, anyway. He was _so happy_ that he was not alone, and, more importantly, that it was Don with him.

He clutched at the button and felt moisture at the back of his eyes, and quickly moved to guilt. This was all his fault. All of it. If he hadn't have answered the NSA's first call, 10 years ago, and every call they had made since, Don would not be lying here unconscious and hurt and on his way to dead. Charlie berated himself heartedly. He had always been an arrogant, self-centered, head-in-the-clouds fool. He had only consulted for the thrill of the numbers, the prestige and perks of the connection. He tried to mumble his sorrow against the gag, and felt a tear escape.

Guilt was momentarily upstaged by fear. Don had not regained consciousness, as far as he knew, since he had been hit over the head with the gun. He could have a fractured skull. He could be dying right now. Charlie didn't know what the woman hoped to learn from him, but he intended to use the information to bargain for Don's release. His heart rate sped up again at the thought that it might already be too late to save his brother.

Another level of fear ensued when he remembered his father. A tinge of gratitude toward Sophia for not allowing her son to kill him mixed in the cauldron of emotions. He prayed that his father would wake up, and that someone would find him before it was too late.

The thought of Alan's awakening resurrected Charlie's guilt. His father was going to wake up gagged and bound in his own laundry room, with no idea how he got there or where his sons were. He would wake up alone. It would be dark back in the laundry room, too, and Alan would be afraid. More tears fell as Charlie acknowledged his selfishness once again. He should not have been happy to have Don with him. He didn't want his father to wake up alone. He wished now that they had left the two of them together at the house.

Enormous regret was the last emotion to show its face. He was sorry he had not allowed Don to take them all straight to the airport. And, in lieu of that, he was sorry these people had not just killed him when he was alone this morning in the garage. His hands fisted tighter in Don's shirt and he made noises of distress in his throat.

Something heavy hit his wounded leg and he arched and tried to gasp against the gag, and lost contact with Don. "Shut-up," he heard, and he recognized the youngest man's voice. "Stop moving." Charlie did his best to comply. Right after his searching fingers found Don's shirt, again.

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Alan woke with the worst headache of his entire life – and that was saying something.

He tried to move, and found that he could not. He shook his head a little, bringing on such a wave of dizziness and nausea that he almost passed out again, and assessed his situation. He willed the sickness to pass, having discovered that he was trussed up like a chicken and gagged. If he threw up, the vomit would be trapped in his mouth, and throat, and might choke him to death. He almost made it worse, thinking about that, but finally he was able to swallow back down the bile that had risen in his throat.

He opened his eyes again – he hadn't realized he had shut them – and looked around the dim room. The only light was filtering in from somewhere far away, apparently. He was lying on a cold floor, something non-carpeted. Linoleum? Large, looming shadows in his line of vision gradually took shape, and he finally recognized his own laundry room.

He tried to remember what happened, and how he got here, of all places, but it was fuzzy. The last clear memory he had was of being angry because the driveway was full, and he had to park on the street. That memory sparked an all-consuming fear in his heart. If this was his house, his laundry room – where were his boys?

The fear made him move desperately to sit up, and the activity brought back the dizziness and nausea with such force that it knocked him back to the floor. Although he struggled against it mightily, he was sucked back into blackness.

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Colleen woke with a gasp and a strangled scream, jolting upright in the strange hotel bed.

She glanced around frantically, trying to figure out where she was. When her eyes hit the digital clock-radio on the bedside table, she remembered, and groaned out loud. On assignment. In Los Angeles. Where Don was.

She drew in a shaky breath and searched the corners of the room for movement, wondering what had awoken her. She had never been the nightmare type. She was not given to being controlled by her subconscious – even when she was asleep. And now that she was fully awake, she couldn't really recall any nightmare. She just found herself sitting up in bed, an incredible feeling of dread heavy in her chest.

Satisfied nothing was amiss in the room proper, she slowly opened the drawer of the bedside table and withdrew her weapon.

Crawling out of bed and into the cold room, she approached the bathroom silently, and stealthily, like a cat. Bringing her gun out before her and gripping it with both hands, she sprung around the corner and screamed into the empty bathroom. "FREEZE!" After a few seconds of silence, she dropped one hand far enough to hit one of the light switches on the wall. She blinked painfully against the sudden brightness, and saw that the bathroom was empty.

The shower curtain was pulled back – no-one was hiding in the tub. There were no cupboards under the sink. She backed out of the room, lowered her weapon and turned on a light in the main room. After repeating the bathroom scene in front of the small closet, she grew almost disappointed. Confused, she dropped to the floor and checked under the bed. She opened every last cupboard and drawer in the room, then indulged herself with one last assault on the draperies. Nope. No-one there, either.

She sighed and padded back to the bathroom to turn off the lights. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness and then headed for the bed, again. What in the world had woken her up and left her feeling so…vulnerable? She started to return her weapon to the drawer, but at the last second, took it to bed with her.

She lay for a long time in the dark room, caressing the steel under the blankets and letting it soothe her. She didn't know what it was – but something was very wrong.

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**Personal A/N: For those of you on the alert list, the verdict is in: YES, I have glaucoma. It was diagnosed 2-6-07 and I had to have "emergency" laser iridotomy of the right eye 2-7; left eye will be on 2-9. Updates may slow (much as the reviews have).**

**In other news, there was an evacuation and bomb scare all morning long while a crazy man assaulted the television station just down the road from where I work -- the evacuation stopped at our location, so we were allowed to wait it out and work on our wills.**

**And you think Charlie has it bad _now_...**


	7. The Plot Thickens

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

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**Chapter 7: The Plot Thickens**

It didn't seem like they had traveled that long. Charlie couldn't be sure, since he had either passed out again, or – a more embarrassing possibility – let the low rumble of the road put him to sleep. All he knew with certainty, as he jerked to consciousness again, was that the vehicle was slowing dramatically.

At some point he had lost his grip on Don's shirt, and his fingers reached out to find it again. As he made contact with his brother's belly, he was heartened to hear a low moan in response. He poked a little harder, and the moan was repeated. Thrilled almost beyond all that was sane, Charlie again twisted his now-shaking hands in the shirt.

Don apparently couldn't move anything but his legs; but when he bent his knees farther and managed to bump the front of his knees into the back of Charlie's, Charlie felt as if the sun had just risen, even though the jostling re-ignited the fire in his leg. Don was not only alive, he seemed to understand that he was with Charlie.

The vehicle lurched to a stop, and Charlie heard Sophia's commanding voice. "Transfer them inside. Be sure to place the vehicle so that it cannot be seen from the road."

A voice he was not familiar with dared to challenge her. "I still think it's stupid to bring them here. We're not far enough out."

Junior charged to his mother's rescue. "It **MUST** be here!" he hissed. "This is where my father and my grandfather died, and this is where they will die!"

"Besides," Sophia interjected, in a much calmer voice, "it is deserted, now. Our friend continues to fight the American justice system. My sources assure me no-one has been here in months. We will be safe, as long as we use precautions." Charlie heard a door unlatch and creak open, and Sophia's voice took on new resolve. "Come. We must begin."

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The second time Alan regained consciousness, more light filtered into the laundry room from the kitchen. The sun must be up and shining through the window.

His head was throbbing and he still felt vaguely nauseous. Even lying still on the floor, once he opened his eyes, the room began to spin. He had to squeeze them shut again while he considered his options.

He had to park on the street, because Don's SUV and Charlie's car filled up the driveway. So, the boys must have been home when…whatever happened, happened. If Alan, who had not seen or heard anything, was hurt and tied up, then hidden in the back of the house – chances were good his sons had been hurt, as well. Dread took up residence in his heart as he considered that both of them would have fought; especially Don, if it looked like Charlie was in danger. Dear God, he hoped they were still alive.

He wondered what had happened. A robbery? Home invasion? Someone with a vendetta against Don — perhaps a suspect, or a perp's family, or something? He decided that the first thing he had to do was determine if they were also somewhere in the house.

The gag effectively muted all attempts he made at making noise, so he decided to try and stand up. His hands were tied behind his back, and his legs were secured at the ankles; but, maybe he could hop from room to room. To begin the process, he wiggled, somewhat like a worm, toward the dryer. He needed a way to pull himself into a sitting position.

Although the dryer was only a few feet away, Alan was exhausted by the time he reached it. The dizziness increased proportionately with every inch of ground he covered, and bile was rising in his throat, again. He swallowed it back, breathed heavily through his nose, and rested his forehead on the floor.

When he felt strong enough to continue, he aligned himself so that his head was touching the dryer, his body more or less vertical to it. He steeled himself for the inevitable result, and began to turn himself over onto his back. It took forever, and he paid for it immediately. He kept his eyes clenched shut against the rotating room, his head swam, and again the bile rose. Mostly on his back, he kept his head turned to the side so he wouldn't choke, and tried to get enough air.

He had to rest.

He just had to rest, for a moment.

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Colby and David had a witness and possible suspect in the box. The two had been partnered long enough to develop an impressive and entertaining "Good Cop/Bad Cop" routine, so Agents Martinez and Carter let them fly with it and joined Megan in the anteroom, watching the video feed.

Megan leant her interpretations to the show. She pointed to the suspect's eyes. "You see, he did it again. He always looks downward and slightly to the right, before he answers. He wants to appear cooperative, but he's hiding something."

Colleen stood slightly behind the seated FBI agent, arms crossed over her ample bosom, and tilted her head. "Everything he's saying fits with our jacket on him," she pointed out.

Agent Carter, standing next to her, leaned over and peered at the screen. "He's scared," he stated, straightening up. A small smile twisted his lips. "Not just of Granger – although that guy is starting to freak me out, a little. Even when he looks at David. And the story never changes. Not a word."

Megan nodded. "Right. He learned his part well, but it sounds just a little too much like a script to me."

Colleen raised one hand to cup her chin and wandered around the perimeter of the room, thinking out loud. "If he's frightened of the Trenton organization, then he should be thrilled to be here. He should be spilling his guts, giving us all we can handle. He's safe here. Between two major federal agencies, he's safer in our custody than he is out on the street. According to his jacket, he's a well-educated man, he's got to realize that." She stood near the door, facing Megan and Agent Carter. "So what is he afraid of?"

Megan watched him a little longer, then glanced over at Colleen. "I think he could be protecting someone. Maybe they're holding a family member, or something."

Colleen started to agree, but was cut off when her cell phone sounded. "Excuse me," she said, ripping it off her belt and opening the door of the anteroom so she could step into the corridor to take the call. As she flipped the phone open, she recognized the name of one of her old NSA coworkers, and frowned. "Sandra? What's up? How have you been?"

As she listened, Colleen placed one hand in the pocket of her pants and clenched her fist. She walked a few feet farther down the corridor, away from the anteroom. "What? Are you sure? How good is the intel?" At the end of the hallway, she leaned against the wall and tilted her head back. "Shit," she said tiredly. "I so did not want to hear this." She listened for a little longer and sighed, shaking her head. "No. Thanks, but I'm actually in L.A. right now on assignment. I'm here, so I might as well do it." She ended the conversation fervently. "Sandra, thanks for this. I appreciate it. Talk to you soon."

Colleen lowered the phone and stared at it for a few moments. She began to scroll through the address book, and wasn't surprised when the names started cropping up. She knew they were there. For some reason, she had never been able to take them out, when the job was over. She took a deep breath a bit the bullet, starting with "A". When she reached only voice mail, she moved on to "C". After a repeat performance, she tried "D" – the call she dreaded the most, and the voice she most wanted to hear. She closed her eyes for a moment, indulging herself in the low and sexy sound of him on his voice mail message, then shook herself out of it and flipped the phone shut.

Colleen strode down the hall back to the anteroom. She opened the door and stuck her head inside. "Megan? Can I see you for a moment, please?"

Megan, nonplussed, glanced at Agent Carter before answering. "S..Sure. Andy, I'll be right back." She stood and soon joined Colleen in the hall. As the anteroom door swung shut behind her, the two women walked a few feet away. "What is it?"

Colleen looked at her with a strange mix of guilt and concern. "Listen. That was a contact of mine at the NSA. Intel shows movement in the remnants of the Martinez organization. His daughter and grandson have left the compound at the same time, and some rumblings are being heard in stateside contacts." Megan's eyes widened a little, and Colleen continued. "It could be nothing. The organization is all-but quashed. Maybe the mourning period is over and she needs a new wardrobe, or something."

"But you're worried," Megan pointed out.

Colleen stared at her feet. "I just think the Eppes should know to be a little more alert until we find out more about this. I… I tried to call them, just now. I tried Charlie, and, and Don…even Alan. All I'm getting is voice mail."

Megan relaxed visibly and smiled in relief. "That's good, it means they're probably on a plane to Maui."

Colleen stared at her. "What?"

Megan spoke gently. "I spoke to Don yesterday afternoon, and he said he and Charlie were taking a real vacation together. They must have talked Alan into going along. Unless you hear that Martinez' daughter is headed for the islands, this is the best possible scenario, having all of them off the mainland for a while."

Colleen tried to smile back, although it was probably a little wobbly. "Oh. Oh. That's good, you're right. That's a load off my mind."

Megan steered them back toward the anteroom. "Well, keep an eye on it," she suggested, not unkindly. "Better safe… well, you know. Now let's get back before we miss Colby's big finish."

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**A/N Glaucoma laser surgery updates: Well, that hurt. Here is a chapter I wrote for you BEFORE they started throwing ice picks in my eye...wanted you to have something to remember me by! (thanks for all the well wishes and concern -- I appreciate it :)**


	8. Nightmares Do Not Require Sleep

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 8: We're Not Always Asleep During Nightmares**

It was fully dark, by now, so Charlie's eyes didn't have to adjust when someone drew the tarp off them. His heart did, though, when Don's shirt was ripped out of his grasp and he felt cold air hit his back where his brother's warmth should have been. His long fingers searched and flailed to re-establish contact, but all he felt were the rough hands of someone grabbing his upper arms and dragging him out of the SUV. Not knowing what he hoped to accomplish, Charlie still struggled, kicking up with his legs despite the agonizing pain of the movement. They were quickly grabbed by another set of hands, and he quit struggling anyway when he heard the unmistakable sound of retching. He tried to turn his head to see if Don was sick. He didn't get very far, but his question was answered anyway when someone muttered lowly. "That's disgusting. It's running outta the corner of his mouth."

Charlie started struggling again then, screaming against his gag, and another voice spoke. "Damn…the little one's a live wire. Want me to shut him up?"

Sophia's cool voice replied. "No. I want them conscious when they see where they are. When you get them inside, remove the gags. They can scream at the top of their lungs and no-one will hear them. Besides, the brother will die before my schedule, should he choke on his own vomit."

The same voice that had complained about the location spoke again. "It's too big a risk. You're going to get us all killed."

Sophia's voice was ice. "I am your employer. Do you disrespect me?" An indiscriminate mumbling, and she spoke again. "I cannot hear you."

Charlie was clear of the SUV now and starting to move. "I said, 'No', Donia Cortez. I apologize, and will do as you say."

Sophia crossed in front of the parade and went to the driver's door of the SUV. She opened it, reached inside and switched on the headlights. Charlie was stunned when they illuminated his destination. It was only a shell of what it was before, burned out and still filled with rubbish from the explosion and fire. God help him, they were carrying him toward the hangar where Martinez had intended to kill him.

His eyes grew wide and he tried again to find Don. Instead, he made eye contact with Manny, whose lips twisted in a grimace of a smile. "In the back," the teenager huffed to his partner. "I prepared an area earlier. There's a generator, and a small propane stove." The other man grunted in reply, and soon Charlie's human taxi was weaving amongst the debris toward a back wall — scorched, with huge gaps edged in torn metal, but still largely standing. Charlie was unceremoniously dumped on the cement floor, the jarring impact shooting arrows of pain through his wounded leg. He tried to breathe through it, and draw the limb up and out of the way, but before he could, a semi-conscious, vomit-coated Don was tossed on top of him. Charlie cried out in agony as the gag was ripped cruelly from his mouth, and arched up against his brother. As much as he had wanted him near, now his sour, sweaty smell and solid weight on Charlie's leg brought tears to the front of his eyes, and stars behind them.

Don groaned, and at the sounds of Charlie's distress did his best to roll away from him. Movement, it seemed, was both unwise and impossible. When rough hands jerked him backwards and removed his gag, Don responded by curling into Charlie and throwing up on his now-unconscious brother.

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Charlie blinked slowly, shivered and shifted painfully on the cold floor. He was in a sitting position, propped against something. Don, who sat next to him, grunted a little with his brother's movement, and his head lolled onto Charlie's shoulder. Charlie blinked again and looked around. They appeared to be alone, and he had no idea how long he had been out, this time. At least the gags were gone.

He bumped shoulders with Don and whispered in a raspy voice. "Don. Donnie! Come on, Don." He began to plead. "Please, Don…wake up!"

His brotherly bumps became more insistent, and at length, Don's head stirred on his shoulder. A low moan escaped him. Charlie studied the small pool of vomit around the vicinity of his knees and pleaded some more. "Donnie, buddy, please. Come on, you can do it. Wake up!"

Don's head barely lifted from its resting place, and he slurred a few words. "Not 'Buddy.' Chawee's 'Buddy'."

Charlie smiled with relief and drew his head back a little to get a better look at Don. "That's right," he said, still encouraging his brother. " 'Buddy' could use a little help, here. Can you look at me, Donnie?" Enough of the hangar roof was missing that moonlight and starlight made it possible for Charlie to get a good look at Don, when he did as he was asked. His head bobbed on his neck like a toy on a car dashboard, and blood had dripped forward from the wound on the back of his head to cover half his face. His eyes were unfocused, the pupils of varying sizes, and Charlie knew with a cold fear that at the very least, Don had a concussion. He might even have a fractured skull.

"You 'kay?", Don asked, blinking slowly. A memory played like a video across his face, and he tried to sit up straighter. "Shot you," he finished, voice full of frustration at his own weakness and concern for Charlie.

Charlie tried to smile reassuringly, although it was usually _Don's_ job to make _him_ feel better. He played off the injury, although his leg felt as if it was on fire. "Flesh wound," he shrugged. "Graze. It's nothing."

Don swayed where he was sitting and frowned at him, not believing him for a second. "Didn't scream like it was nothing," he accused.

Charlie forced out a chuckle. "You know me, Don. Slivers make me scream." As he watched Don try to smile back, Charlie tried to restrain the panic rising in his chest. Don was obviously seriously injured – he wouldn't be pulling off a Big Brother Rescue any time soon. Charlie had to find a way out of here; not just before they came back and killed them both, but before Don got any worse.

As if keying into his thoughts, Don suddenly paled, and closed his eyes. "Feel bad," he admitted, and the two words almost made Charlie scream louder than the gunshot had. He had never in his life heard Don say such a thing, and he learned now how much he counted on that.

He spoke rapidly, letting his fear show in his voice. "No, don't go back to sleep, Don! Stay with me, talk to me, please!" Don just mumbled and let his head fall back against the wall, eyes still closed. He moaned again when his head made contact. Charlie searched desperately for the magic words. "Don…Don…I'll tell you! Stay awake, and I'll tell you about the phone call from Amita! Screw Maui."

Don's eyes opened a slit, and one eyebrow rose slightly. "Happen?"

Charlie was not pleased with Don's increasing inability to string words together. "She met someone," he answered, watching Don closely and speaking rapidly. "She thinks we shouldn't communicate for a while, entirely. She thinks we should stop pretending. She says we'll never be lovers again, and she's not too optimistic about friendship right now, either."

Don struggled to keep his eyes open. "You?", he asked, still reduced to one word.

Charlie pushed for more. "Me, what?"

Don swallowed. "You think?"

As concerned as he was for Don, Charlie glanced away for a moment, and then back at his brother's pale face. "I think she's right."

The eyes slid shut and Don began to tilt toward Charlie, again. "S..s...sorr," he said, and this time he couldn't even manage an entire word.

Charlie spoke frantically. "Come on, Don. It's your turn, now. Tell me why you showed up in the garage today and demanded that we go to Maui. Please, Donnie."

Don's slurring grew worse. " 'ired…". His head slumped on Charlie's shoulder, again.

In his mind-numbing terror, Charlie grew too enthusiastic with his attempts at keeping Don awake. He tried to pull away from him for a moment so that he could spring back and shove him into wakefulness, again. Instead, the loss of contact caused Don to fall completely onto his side, his head hitting Charlie's thigh. The slight movement resurrected his nausea, and he wasn't even able to turn his head before he was throwing up again, this time toward Charlie's feet.

He groaned miserably, and Charlie leaned over his fallen brother, trying to rub his back with pressure from his head. "It's okay," he said, choking back a sob, "you're okay." He repeated the words over and over, until he felt Don relax in his lap and knew that he was unconscious again. Charlie, still nearly doubled over him, rested his chin on Don's shoulder and tried to think. He hypnotized himself with the mantra. "You're okay…you're okay…you're okay…you're okay…"


	9. The Oreo Effect

**ATitle: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 9: The Oreo Effect**

She stood before the two brothers. Her son was beside her, and her two employees waited slightly to the rear, awaiting further instructions. When the four had first re-entered the shell of a hangar, one of the men had yanked Don off Charlie's lap by his hair, ignoring Charlie's pleas, and banging Don back against the wall. The result was that Don was woozily brought back to consciousness, and slurred protests escaped him until the man threatened to backhand him again with the gun. The threat did not make Don shut up. Rather, Charlie's frantic movements and abject begging had helped Don find the discipline he needed.

Now the Eppes both sat and looked up at Sophia. "You will find that I am a reasonable person," she said. "Simply tell me where I can locate the other agent, Dr. Eppes, and I will show you mercy."

"You'll...you'll let us go?", Charlie whispered, both hopeful and unbelieving.

She smiled, and shook her head slightly. "No. No, I am afraid I am not that reasonable. When my son is finished with you, you will both die. The only question is how much you will force yourselves to take from him, first." She glanced almost imperceptibly at Manny and nodded her head, once. "All things must die, once they outlive their usefulness."

Manny smiled slightly in response, drew a hunting knife from his waistband and paused until he saw Charlie's widening eyes glued to the flashing silver of the blade. Then he pivoted quickly on one foot, taking aim as he spun, and let the blade fly. Six inches of stainless steel buried itself in the eye and brain of the man with the gun. The weapon clattered to the floor as the man wordlessly followed with a thud. Before his partner could react, Manny had taken one step toward him, reached out his hands, and twisted his neck to the right until it audibly cracked.

Even Don, having seen all he had seen in his long career, was sickened and shocked by the suddenness and viciousness of Manny's attack on his own people. He tried to press closer to Charlie to calm his gasping brother, and almost tipped over again when Charlie drew away at the same time, leaning over to the other side.

This time, it was Charlie who was throwing up.

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Alan finally gave up on achieving an upright position, and flopped himself back onto his stomach. Once again, nausea rose in the back of his throat, and once again, he fought it off. He slowly and painfully arced his body around, so that he was no longer facing the dryer, but the hallway that led to the kitchen. He had traversed that hallway almost every day of the last 30-odd years, and he knew that it was 10 steps down the corridor, another four -- past the water heater -- back to the washer and dryer. Figuring two feet per step, he had about 28 feet to inch along on his stomach, before he reached the kitchen. Maybe he could somehow get ahold of a knife, or something.

As he began the journey, Alan thought something for the first time, and it pained him. Twenty-eight feet to the kitchen: 10 times 2, plus 4 times two...maybe Charlie had inherited some of his number obsession, after all. All these years, Alan had failed to see that -- even though as a city planner, and now an engineering consultant, he himself was not unfamiliar or uncomfortable with numbers. Charlie was just so much more advanced than he was, at such a young age, it had never occurred to Alan that they actually had numbers in common.

Continuing with agonizing slowness over the floor, he wondered if he had missed obvious connections with Don, as well. He was reminded, suddenly, of the case Don had worked when his own 1960s political activities had come to light. They had both been defensive about their respective positions. Don had referred to him as a "Commie", and Alan had shot back "G-Man". They had smiled, to make the discriminatory labels jokes, but he had wondered just how funny either of them found their newly discovered distance. Now, he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it all along. As a younger man, he had indulged in strong beliefs that led to strong actions. He had not submitted to the pressures of society to conform to the accepted ways of thinking and their subsequent viewpoints. He had been his own man. Now, Don was just as committed to what he believed was right, and even more willing to do what he had to, in order to promote that.

Without realizing it, Alan smiled grimly at the floor. He and his sons had a lot in common. Numbers, justice...and most importantly…love.

If they were in this house, he would find them.

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Three teams of FBI agents, in addition to DEA agents Carter and Martinez, deployed around the small, one-story house. LAPD had already quietly evacuated the rest of the block, and their officers concentrated on securing the area and maintaining order.

When everyone was in position, Bob Derrick approached the front door and rang his own doorbell. Presently, the door opened. Derrick swallowed nervously and tried to peer inside. "I did what you asked," he pleaded. "Let me see my family. I didn't tell the cops anything! Richie!! Linda!!"

He was drawn through the doorway and the door was slammed shut. Because of the wire he was wearing, the agents could still hear everything. The first thing they heard was a low, unfriendly laugh. "Not so fast, Bobby boy. Boss says we hold you all until he calls with the all clear."

Derrick protested. "Look, I did _more_ than you asked. I didn't just refuse to talk, I pointed them in another direction entirely! Mason will call. At least let us wait together." His voice became plaintive. "Richie is frightened, he's just a little boy." The sound of childish crying underscored his point. "Let me take them both to the back bedroom. There are no windows or exits there, you can post a guard in the hallway…please, Mike! _Please!_"

The crying grew louder. "Damn kid's giving me a headache, and he pissed his pants – it's starting to stink, in here.…. Angel! Angel, check out that back bedroom. Closet, everything. If it's really secure, go ahead and take them back. Mason will call soon, anyway. Let 'em have some last time, together." From his concluding words, it was apparent to the agents – if not to Derrick – that the men had no intention of leaving any of them alive.

Colby slipped up behind Megan and whispered into her ear. "Mason's down." She nodded and listened to the activity in the house.

It was four agonizing minutes before she heard what she wanted: Derrick was whispering to his wife. "Baby, get Richie in the closet. We've got to get out of the line of fire." There was a frightened response from Linda, some rustling, and then Bob Derrick whispered again, directly into the hidden microphone. "Three in front, one back in the hallway."

Megan lifted her head, and gave the signal.

Agents advanced on the house in waves of three, the first wave behind riot shields. Megan and Colleen were in the second wave. They crashed into the house, immediately confronted with rounds of semi-automatic fire. Mason's men were nothing if not quick to react.

While Megan crouched behind her cover and returned fire, Colleen rolled off to the side. Derrick had provided them with a diagram of his house, and her goal was to subdue the gunman in the hallway before he had a chance to use the Derricks as a shield. As she rose to a crouch to pursue her target, a wild round hit the door frame beside her, splitting off a chunk of wood into flying splinters. Several flew at high velocity into Colleen's forearm, and she gasped involuntarily and dropped back to the ground.

At the same time, she saw her target taking aim for her, and she fired first. She was in the wrong position, and she knew her aim was off. At best, she would wing him. She waited to feel his bullet rip into her body.

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**A/N: Yes, this is the chapter I am writing after my laser eye surgery; hence, the knife through the eye bit. Also, as for the title: it refers to the chapter both beginning and ending with gunplay, with poor Alan sandwiched in the middle.**


	10. Of Promises and Plans

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 10: Of Promises and Plans**

After Manny had killed both of the other men, Sophia looked calmly at Charlie. "You're certain that you do not want to tell me, Doctor? It is so little I ask. A simple location."

Charlie swallowed thickly and focused on her eyes, which were frightening in their coldness, but better than looking at her son, or his victims. "I'm telling you the truth, I don't know!" Charlie drew strength and bravado from the presence of his brother. He couldn't let Don down. He mustn't allow him to see how terrified he was. "I severed all ties with the NSA. I was never an agent to begin with – just a math consultant!"

Sophia sighed. "Very well. I do not have the enjoyment for this side of the business that my husband and son share. My womanhood betrays me; I find myself willing to give you another chance."

Manny protested, looking disappointed. "Mama!"

She held up one hand to silence him. "We shall give you a little more time to consider. When Manny returns, he will not show the mercy I have. I will allow him free reign. I may not choose to watch…" – she glanced fondly at her son – "though as a mother, I am proud of his skills." She looked back at Charlie. "It is of no matter. When you choose to talk, if I am not here, Manny will come for me."

Charlie raised his head defiantly. "I have nothing to say." Don, sitting silent and sick beside him, was a little surprised by the steel in his voice.

Sophia just twisted her face in a grimace that was meant to pass for a smile, and led her son away.

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Don and Charlie had been left alone again for awhile, as the sun slowly climbed in the sky and dawned over the hangar. Well, alone, if you didn't count the two dead bodies just a few feet away. Don, during a rare clear moment, understood that Manny had left them there as intimidation, and he tried to comfort Charlie. It was hard going, however, since he still couldn't form a complete sentence. He leaned heavily into his brother. "Don't look," he suggested.

Charlie snorted a little. "I can hardly sit here with my eyes closed for the next…however long it takes."

Don frowned at the insinuation. "Get us out," he promised, weakly.

Charlie misunderstood him. "I've been trying," he responded, his voice shaky. "I...I don't know what to do, yet. I'm thinking, Donnie." He sighed miserably, feeling like a failure. "I'm sorry."

Don started to shake his head, and was assailed by nausea again. He had to stop throwing up on Charlie. But he couldn't let him do this to himself, either. "Not you. Me."

Charlie didn't respond to that, specifically. "I could make up something about where she is. I don't even know..." He sat up a little straighter and his voice grew stronger. "Wouldn't tell them if I did. But maybe if I make something up..."

Don disagreed. "Find out," he warned. He wished he could tell Charlie that Colleen was here, but who knew where Manny and Sophia were -- they might be listening.

Charlie worked on his plan. "Well, yeah, they'd find out. But maybe I could buy enough time to think of something else."

Don's head started to droop toward Charlie's shoulder, and he was disgusted with himself. He should be getting Charlie out of this mess, and all he could do was pass out and throw up. His eyes were drifting shut and he hurried to speak before they did. "Sssorry 'bout that," he slurred, happily stringing together three words.

Charlie still had trouble following him. He looked over at Don, concerned, and tried to push closer himself so that he could offer more support. "What?"

Don allowed his eyes to shut. "Barf." It was a simple word, yet expressive.

Charlie would have smiled, if he hadn't been so worried. "It's all right," he assured his brother. "Can you stay awake with me a little longer, Don?

An unintelligible mumble was all he got in response. Charlie shivered, and worked his hands behind him in their confining ropes, rubbing the wrists raw. Nothing surprised him more, than when he fell asleep himself.

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By the time Alan had covered 14 of the 28 feet, he was convinced he would die before he got to the kitchen. He was still dizzy, still fighting nausea, and he was moving parts of his body that hadn't seen action in years. He was beyond sore, and way beyond frightened. No-one had come looking for him. The sun was fully risen now, and he could hear various noises from the street, filtering into the house, but he had not heard a thing from within it; not since he had originally regained consciousness. He was terrified almost past all rational thought that his sons were hurt — or worse. The more time that passed without some kind of sign, the harder he found it to breathe. There should be thumps, of other bodies trying to squirm like he was. There should be gagged groans, even, muffled voices. Dear God in Heaven, there should be the labored breathing of Charlie in a full-out panic attack, somewhere.

Alan had to press his forehead to the cool lineoleum and close his eyes. He prayed more fervently than he had since Margaret lay dying.

Please. Please. Please, God, let there be breathing.

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Colby appeared over Colleen's prone form, and with one well-paced shot, eliminated the gunman in the hall.

By now, two of the other men in the house had been hit, and the third was screaming out his surrender. While agents secured him and checked on the status of the others, additional agents moved through the entire house, making sure it was clear. A third squad headed for the back bedroom, to ascertain the status of the Derrick family.

David, and Andy Carter, were with that group. Colleen tried to go with them. Megan and Colby, seeing the blood on her arm, were insisting that she get out of the house and seek medical attention. She could hear a distant siren as an EMT unit approached the house. Adrenaline still pumping, she resisted as Megan began to physically herd her toward the door. "It's nothing," she insisted, a trifle annoyed. "I can keep going!"

Megan only gripped her good arm more firmly. "It's under control, Agent Martinez." She spoke with authority, with conviction. "All over but the mop-up." She continued to tug on Colleen, looking at her and grinning, suddenly. "And about 10 hours of paperwork for every minute we spent on the raid — surely you don't mind missing out on some of that!"

Colleen finally surrendered and walked docilely with Megan to the curb. Megan tried to get a better look at Colleen's arm while they were waiting for the paramedics, but she testily pulled it away and took a few steps, creating some distance between her and the FBI agent. "It's nothing," she said again.

Megan raised an eyebrow. "Don't forget, I went to take your statement in the hospital after you took that round in the leg," she reminded her. "You were a lot easier to get along with then. Either you're hurt worse now – in which case you should probably sit down and let me perform some first aid – or something else is wrong."

Colleen cradled her arm unconsciously against her vest and looked at Megan with something akin to embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'm…I'm…_not right_," she finished, lamely.

Megan closed the gap between them, in case Agent Martinez should suddenly go down. "What is it? The scene is secure, none of our people was seriously injured…all in two days' effort. As busts go – especially interdepartmental busts – this one has been easy."

The siren was getting louder, and Colleen raised her voice. "I know. It's not this case."

Comprehension passed over Megan's face. "You're still worried about the Eppes." Colleen shrugged, silently confirming. Megan could see the ambulance now, a few blocks away. "Tell you what," she bargained. "Let the EMTs check you out and patch up that arm. If they say it's all right, you can ride with me back to the office. We'll take a detour on the way; just so you can be sure there's no-one home, and they're all off safe in Maui."

Colleen was surprised at the relief she felt. She smiled thankfully at Megan, unable to verbalize just how important she felt it was, to take that little detour.


	11. I Hate When That Happens

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 11: I Hate When That Happens**

Don and Charlie did not have long to talk before Manny was back. Over 6 feet tall and linebacker material, he reminded Don vaguely of Colby when he brought him roughly and easily to his feet. Charlie began wiggling and protesting immediately, and Don tried to add his objections, maybe even some struggling – but he was dismayed once more by his own weakness, and inability to function on even a quasi-normal level. He did manage to kick it up a notch when he saw a gag approaching him again, but the sudden burst of strength proved ill-timed. It only served to annoy Manny, who shoved him hard, back against the wall. A sharp edge of metal cut into Don's skull, but he barely had time to process the new trail of blood running down his neck. The blow had rendered him senseless again. He couldn't think clearly enough to be proud that he wasn't throwing up this time. He was unable to process the fact that Charlie had taken on some superhuman gift, and was pushing himself up the wall, trying to stand, oblivious to the sharp bits of metal that tore into his back. The world was fast turning gray around the edges, and Don was slumping. He didn't really register Manny's grip on his arm growing tighter, or the barrel of the gun suddenly in his abdomen. In fact, Don was all-but unconscious, when Manny threatened to shoot him then and there if Charlie didn't drop back to the floor and shut up.

Charlie had no problem hearing Manny, however. Frantic, his fear translated itself to his legs. They gave out on him, and he slid back down the wall rapidly. His wide eyes were glued to the gun, and he didn't even wince when his back was ripped open again on the way down.

Manny struggled to drag Don about 15 feet away from Charlie, where he leaned him in the corner where the East and South walls met, let go, and watched him slip unconscious to the floor. Manny left his legs twisted awkwardly beneath him and squatted long enough to secure the gag around his mouth.

It was all Charlie could do to keep from begging Manny to stop hurting his brother. Charlie breathed rapidly and shallowly, almost hyperventilating and passing out himself. Why had Manny separated them? Why was he gagging Don again? Charlie continued to stare at the elder Eppes, longing to touch him again, as Manny stood.

Junior shoved the gun in the waist of his jeans, and swaggered slowly past Charlie toward the propane stove. When he passed Charlie, the professor tore his eyes away from Don long enough to see where Manny was going. He was surprised when he noticed for the first time that the stove was on. At some point Manny had come to the hangar – Charlie and Don must have both been sleeping, although Charlie couldn't believe they had let someone get by them like that – and apparently started himself a pot of coffee? He stared with disbelief at the tin camping percolator, which was beginning to boil. Manny knelt and gazed at it almost disinterestingly. When he stood again and faced Charlie, the glinting blade of the knife showed in his hand again. Charlie was at once sickened – was that the same knife that had been buried in that man's brains? – and apprehensive; was it the knife about to be buried in his own?

Manny squatted at Charlie's feet. His legs were extended, the jeans of his left leg soaked in blood; the material on his right leg soaked in foul-smelling vomit. Manny looked at him while he worked the knife in and out amongst his fingers, obviously at home with the weapon. He smiled cruelly. "Hold still," he commanded, adding sarcastically, "I don't want to cut you." He moved his attention to Charlie's legs again, and he lowered the knife and began to slit the jeans over his wounded limb. He stopped at about the knee, when the lower leg was exposed. Although even the slight movement of his leg had made Charlie hiss and stifle a grunt, still trying to be quiet, Manny looked vaguely disappointed. He moved in a little closer to peer, pushing the ripped jeans farther out of the way. Finally, he looked back at Charlie. "Only a flesh wound," he said, sounding as if he had opened a present on Christmas morning and discovered underwear. "Still, it looks like it may already be infected." He stood, and tilted his head. "I can clean that for you."

Charlie risked speaking again, although it was only a whisper. "No," he pleaded. "Let my brother go, instead."

Manny smiled again, and it sent a shiver down Charlie's spine. "Oh, I may need him later. This won't take a minute." He pivoted and crossed the few steps to the coffee pot, which was now percolating merrily. Carefully, he drew a cloth from his pocket and bent over to take the hot container from the stove. He walked back to Charlie's feet, and smiled one more time.

Then, he poured the boiling water over his exposed leg.

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By the time Colleen and Megan reached Casa Eppes, two things had happened.Alan had reached the entrance to the kitchen, and his neighbor had begun cutting down a diseased tree in his yard, complete with chain saw.

The women first rang the doorbell. Alan, resting again, lifted his head. He was unsure whether he had heard something, over the chain saw. He strained his ears, trying to filter out the buzz and hear something more important. The voice of someone he loved would be nice.

The neighbor took a short break to toss some cut branches into the back of a truck when Megan pounded on the kitchen door. "Alan? Is anybody home? Hello?"

Alan's heart nearly stopped. Thank God. Thank God. Megan would find the boys. He grunted as loud as he could against the gag, and heard the pathetically weak noise with his own ears.

Then he heard Megan speak again. "I told you, they're all gone. They must have taken Don's SUV to the airport – or maybe a cab, and they picked him up at his apartment."

Alan tried to grunt louder, while he figured out who she was talking to. Colby? David? And why did she think they had gone to the airport? Had someone told her they were all leaving? As he grunted, he squirmed with all his power toward the kitchen table. He would knock over a chair. Surely someone would hear that.

What he heard next himself almost stopped him mid-wiggle. A voice he never thought he would hear again. Slightly husky, decidedly female. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry. I just had a feeling…I shouldn't have wasted your time." What the hell? That was Colleen, wasn't it? What the hell?

Alan reached a chair and began to bump it with his head, which almost made him lose consciousness again. He heard Megan say something about stopping for lunch on the way back to the office and managed in his panic to move a few more feet. He started swinging his shoulders as hard as he could into the chair. It scraped across the floor a few inches. Colleen asked about a good deli, and in desperation he swung his legs around in one grand, exhaustive movement, and kicked the chair as hard as he could.

He watched in triumph as it tipped toward the floor. And his heart stopped in terror as his neighbor started the chain saw, again. When the chair finally dropped, even Alan could barely hear it. He couldn't hear the women talking anymore, either.

They had left him.

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**A/N: Luvnumbers, you have been my biggest and most loyal fan for a solid year. I will finish this, even if you are the only one reading!**


	12. Standing on the Edge

**_A/N to my anonymous reviewer JMM, simply because I have no other way to respond: If you love my work, re-read all 60+ titles and ask yourself how often I have had C & A live happily ever after. Also, I don't think there will be 15 more chapters of Charlie torture, but there will be a few. It's what I do. (Again, familiarity with my stories should at least hint at that.) Finally, I realize hot coffee burns; that is why it is torture. You can find pretty much anything on the Internet._**

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**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 12: Standing on the Edge**

Charlie's tortured scream brought Don to consciousness, again. He tried at first, before he even had his eyes open, to feel his brother beside him. It was the absence of Charlie that finally persuaded his eyelids to raise, and seek him out. Don had no memory to explain why he was so far away from Charlie, and no idea why his little brother was suddenly lying on his side and howling, obviously in pain, trying to curl up in a ball.

Don tried to call out to Charlie, but his voice was effectively stopped by the gag. He struggled weakly to rearrange his body; even more weakly against the tight binds around his wrists and ankles. He blinked groggily and saw that Manny was placing something on the propane stove. While he wondered what, Cortez Junior straightened, turned, and walked back toward Charlie.

He glanced at Don. "Just in time for the show," he greeted. "This one was about to polish my shoes." Without another word, he drew back a foot and kicked viciously at Charlie's legs, concentrating on the wounded one.

Charlie bit off more screams. Now that he knew Don was awake, he didn't want to make it worse for him. Manny left his head alone, since they needed him coherent enough to give them the information they were seeking, but he continued to methodically work his way up the rest of Charlie's body. He kicked every square inch of body he could contact, A few times, he leaned over to grab Charlie's shoulders, lift him a few inches off the ground, and slam him back into it. Once, he scored a direct hit to Charlie's midsection, and Don heard the crack of a rib from where he sat. He closed his eyes and moaned as loudly as Charlie did.

Don started banging his back rhythmically against the wall behind him, although it made him so dizzy he nearly passed out again. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and felt tears run down his cheeks, soak into the gag and occasionally drip off his chin. He began to gasp and sob into his the cloth as the sounds of the beating went on and on.

At length, he heard Manny's voice. "You have the power to stop this, Doctor Eppes. Simply provide my mother with the location of the female agent."

While he was speaking, Don heard footsteps, and he tentatively opened his eyes again to see Manny kneeling at the generator. Don looked quickly at Charlie, who still lay writhing on the floor. Don could hear raspy breathing and low groans every few seconds. Charlie wouldn't – or couldn't -- look over at him. Don knew, no matter how long he lived, and no matter what he witnessed during that life, he would never feel worse than he did right now. He had stopped trying to scream against the gag, and now he tried to communicate telepathically: _Come on, Buddy. Take it easy. It'll be okay…it'll be okay, somehow…_

He was distracted by the sound of the generator starting, and he re-focused on Manny. His eyes widened when he saw the young man sauntering back toward Charlie. He was holding what looked like jumper cables. A low growl formed in Don's throat and couldn't find a way out. He knew what Manny was going to do next, and he thought his heart might just break in half.

Charlie lay on the floor and kept his eyes closed, even though he sensed Manny standing over him. Another kick caused his eyes to shoot open and a gasp to escape him before he saw the cables in Junior's hands. Manny's voice seemed to drip ice-water when he spoke. "Pay attention. Stay awake. You have a choice to make. I'm feeling generous. There are many ways to attach the wires, before I begin the shocks. Tell me where to place them." Both Don and Charlie looked at him in silent horror. Manny sighed dramatically and continued, waving the wires around a bit. "These are your choices. Soles of the feet, ears, eyes, gums, or testicles. You must tell me soon, for I grow bored. I will decide myself…" He seemed to think of something and made a humming sound. "I know. Perhaps I will use them all."

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Alan lay on the kitchen floor and listened to the buzz of the chain saw.

He knew just how that tree felt.

He couldn't believe help had been so close, and now was gone. He couldn't fathom what Colleen was doing here, unless it had something to do with why he was trussed up like an animal in the calf-roping event. He could not entertain the possibility that his sons were in worse trouble than he was. He also could not stay conscious, as the physical strain of moving to the kitchen combined with the stress of his near-rescue and jumbled thoughts. Somehow he had ended up on his back again, and now he lay quietly and stared at the ceiling. He knew he was getting loopy when it occurred to him that he would have to talk to Charlie about painting the kitchen.

It wasn't until his ears started to tickle that Alan realized he was crying, and the tears were rolling into them. He brought his head down to one shoulder, and then the other, trying to fight the moisture. He sighed without noise when his next discovery was that he was lying on top of his own arms and hands, and they were getting numb.

It was at that moment that Alan teetered on the edge of the great, dark, precipice of no return. It was a familiar place. He had stood there as a young man, when his own father had died suddenly and unexpectedly. He was on that brink again when Donnie was almost five, and desperately ill. Doctors were testing him for meningitis. Margaret, pregnant with Charlie, had pulled him back, that time. The third time he hovered on the edge of madness was at her burial. He had stood with his sons, all of them hidden behind dark glasses, and it was the closest he had ever come to going over. Then, Charlie had made a small movement that Alan caught out of the corner of his eye, and he turned. He saw that Charlie was sagging heavily on Don, who stood silently and supported him. Alan saw the tears escaping from underneath Charlie's sunglasses, and he saw the dry face of his eldest, the firm set to his jaw. He had known then that they each needed the strength and comfort of family. He had realized that he could not leave them to survive this on their own.

Now, as he pulled back from the canyon of despair and awkwardly flopped over, eyeing the telephone mounted on the wall near the door, he understood that again. Whatever had happened, whoever was responsible had not killed him. Until he knew differently, he would believe they had not killed Don or Charlie, either – and he would find them.

Alan began to wiggle.

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Paperwork on a dual-agency investigation – even one that had lasted less than two days – would take days to complete. The Agents did not even try to tie things up that afternoon. Once the first round of interrogations was over, it was an easy decision to call it a day and start fresh in the morning.

Martinez drove herself and Carter in their rented vehicle back to their hotel, since she was more familiar with the Los Angeles area. After Andy tried unsuccessfully, several times, to start a conversation, he settled back in the passenger seat and enjoyed the ride. He could understand if his partner needed a little space, on this one. Colleen had certainly not shared all the details of her past alliance with the NSA with him, but Andy had picked up enough to realize that this had to be a difficult assignment for her. Hell, the tension in the room yesterday morning when she and Agent Eppes had seen each other – Andy was surprised the fire sprinklers in the ceiling hadn't been set off.

Nevertheless, he was a little surprised when Colleen pulled to the curb in front of the hotel instead of heading for the parking garage. He looked at her, questioning. "What's up? I thought we were going to grab dinner in the hotel restaurant and turn in early."

She shrugged, gripping the steering wheel hard and looking out the windshield instead of at Andy. "I changed my mind. I'm…just a little wound up, I guess. You go ahead. I'll just take a little drive."

Andy hesitated. "You sure? I'll hang with you. We can hit a drive thru somewhere."

This time she did look at him, gratefully, for a moment. She flashed her trademark smile. "I'm fine, Andy. Go inside; eat, call your wife and kid. I won't be long. Thanks, though…really."

"Okay," he finally agreed, convinced by the promise of a long, uninterrupted phone call to his wife and seven-year-old daughter. He climbed out of the car, but leaned back inside before he shut the door. "Don't hesitate to call the room later, if you want to talk. Or get drunk, or something."

She laughed and thanked him again, and waved when he passed in front of the car to enter the hotel. When he was safely inside, Colleen sat for a minute in the idling rental. This was ridiculous, she knew that. That's why she hadn't asked him, or Megan, or anybody else to go with her. This was insane. It had only been a few hours since she was at the empty house. She couldn't help it, though. She had called everyone's cell phone on the way back to the office, and no-one had answered. Not one of them took their phone to Maui?

Colleen was still alive, after years as a law enforcement official on the federal level, because she followed her gut. And her gut was telling her to go back to Pasadena. So she checked the rear-view mirror, and pulled back out into traffic.


	13. Did You Ever Know That You're My Hero?

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 13: Did You Ever Know That You're My Hero?**

Charlie didn't know if he was ever going to give Alan the grandchildren he so craved – especially now that there was pretty much no hope for him and Amita. Still, it was not a difficult decision. He knew for a fact he did not want to electrocute his balls. "F-f-f-feet…," he stammered.

Manny looked at him hopefully. "You're sure? I am a man of my word, and I did offer you a choice." He dropped his eyes to Charlie's crotch. "Still. While Mama is resting in the car, I would so like to get my hands on that."

Charlie's stomach rolled, and for a moment, he thought he might make another deposit in the vomit bank. His equipment shrank at the very suggestion. Swallowing bile, afraid to speak lest it escape, he merely nodded his head.

Manny regarded the cables in his hand. "So. We will begin with feet." He looked back at Charlie and grinned at the obvious distress on the mathematician's face. "Be a gentleman. Ask nicely."

Charlie pressed back as far as he could against the wall and looked away from Manny. He couldn't look at Don, either, so he stared at the opposite wall. "F-feet," he repeated. "P-p-p-please."

"Very nice," Junior complimented him. He knelt down at Charlie's feet. He left them his legs tied at the ankles, but he lay the cables on the floor beside him, and began removing Charlie's tennis shoes, and socks.

On his wall, Don was trying hard to get a word past the gag. Even to his own ears, the noises he was making did not sound like words. He stomped his feet on the floor, trying to get Manny's attention. He was trying to say, _"I'll tell. I know where she is."_ Even though he couldn't seem to make his intentions known, it broke something inside of him even to think it. Colleen was not just a fellow Agent. She had risked her life to save Charlie's just a few months ago, in the parking lot shootout. Now, Don was ready to sacrifice hers. To further complicate matters, Don had known as soon as he saw her walk thru the bullpen that he still loved her. Forty-nine percent of him told him that he could not do this, he could not give her up to this madwoman and her son. Fifty-one percent of him watched Manny prepare to electrocute his brother, after already shooting, beating and doing who knew what the hell else to him, and understood that he could do nothing else. He raged in terror and frustration. God in Heaven, there had to be a way to get Manny to figure out what he was saying.

When the young man had removed Charlie's shoes, yanking roughly on his wounded and blistered leg and eliciting another hiss for his trouble, he slid off the socks. Charlie had reacted so deliciously to his innuendos earlier, Manny decided to have a little fun. With deliberate, slow motions, he caressed Charlie's bare feet and the lower part of his good leg. "We don't have to be all about business, Doctor. Even hard workers should take a break now and then." Charlie tried to pull his leg away, but Manny held on tightly. Distracted by the noises Don was making, which became louder and louder, he frowned as he looked over at him. "If the gag is not enough, I may have to eliminate him before I planned," he mused, thinking aloud. Then he looked back at Charlie. "Or would you like him to watch us first?" He actually let loose a snort of laughter. "Perhaps he will die of a heart attack and save me the bullet."

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut when he saw a hand approaching that place where no man had gone before, and wanted to die before Manny found his entertainment. He almost fainted in relief when he heard the clacking of high heels on cement, and Sophia's voice. "What do you do?," she asked her son impatiently. "Have you not managed to get the information, yet? Your father was much more efficient at this sort of thing, apparently."

Charlie opened his eyes a slit to see Manny scowling at his feet. He was attaching electrodes as he answered his mother. "He still claims he does not know," he said curtly. "I have been too kind. Soon, he will beg to tell you."

Sophia stood behind him and crossed her arms over her chest. "See that he does," she ordered. While Manny moved to the generator to flick a switch, she looked toward Don, who was still trying desperately to make a sound that could be understood. She looked away again quickly. "It is good that you humiliate him in front of his brother," she said, a little more kindly. "Although his noise begins to give me a headache."

Manny adjusted a dial on the generator and turned back toward his audience, one hand resting lightly on the switch. He glared at Charlie, who dared to embarrass him in front of his mother. "Now. We begin."

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When Don was a teenager – well, all of his life, as far as Alan knew – he had been popular with the girls. Alan used to tease him that he _was_ a girl, according to the hours he spent on the telephone. He and Margaret had been happy when that phase ended – but it had lasted long enough that when they added the kitchen extension, they had requested an extra-long cord. When the Princess-style phone was lifted from its cradle, Don could stretch the cord for almost 15 feet. He could sit in the hallway to the utility room and flirt to his heart's content.

Over the years since then, there had been discussions about replacing the phone. Those discussions evolved into eliminating it entirely – all three Eppes men were chained to their cell phones now, and the house line hardly ever rang, unless it was someone trying to sell them something. Recently, since Charlie bought the house and started paying the bills, he had talked a few times about taking out all three phones in the house. He had never gotten around to doing it – which wasn't really a surprise. Alan couldn't blame him much for that one, though – he himself had never gotten around to replacing the phone in the first place.

Now, as he finally reached the long cord that hung almost all the way to the floor, he stopped for a moment and rested his head on the linoleoum. He needed to catch his breath, and he wanted to offer a quick prayer of thanksgiving to the God Who had made them all too busy to deal with the kitchen phone.

A few seconds later, he rolled up carefully on his side. He used his arms and bound hands to push against the floor awkwardly, and managed to raise his head another few inches. That was all it took for him to shove his head into the loop of the plastic-enclosed wires. He allowed himself to tip back heavily onto his stomach. The cord stretched around his neck, and for a moment he thought he might accidentally strangle himself. He steeled himself for that possibility, and, holding his chin tightly to his chest to trap the cord there, he began to back away the way he had come.

Now that he was doing it, Alan became concerned. Either nothing was going to happen, or he was going to rip the entire unit off the wall. He raised his eyes a little to check on things, still wiggling backwards, just in time to see the receiver fly off the base and hurtle toward his head. Overjoyed, he quickly released the cord with his neck, and didn't even feel it when the phone cracked him solidly between the eyes. It bounced off his noggin and settled, face up, a few inches in front of him. He could hear the dial tone.

Alan knew he only had 30 seconds to act before the recording told him to "please hang up, and try your number again." After a quick look at the push buttons to make sure his memory was correct, he spun himself around so quickly he got dizzy, and had to close his eyes. Ignoring the bile that suddenly rose within him again, Alan rolled up onto his side once more and moved backwards until he felt the cord with his fingers. He worked his way down in until he found the telephone, just a few inches away. Alan forced his numbing fingers to work, quickly and surely. Eyes still shut, frowning in concentration, he envisoned the faces of his sons while he felt the tiny buttons.

Afraid to wait too long and lose his chance, Alan took as deep a breath as he could behind the gag, and pushed some buttons.

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The first call Colleen had taken in the car was from her NSA contact. The news was bad. The NSA had confirmation that Sophia and her son had both landed in Los Angeles county, in separate private jets, as was the family custom. Operatives had found a maintenance worker at a private air field who had been persuaded to talk, and he had identified their photos. So far, they hadn't gotten anymore out of him than that. He claimed he didn't pay any attention to them once they arrived – he was much more interested in the aircraft – and he had no idea where they had gone. Almost as an afterthought, he had provided a vague description of the ground transportation vehicle he had seen the young man enter. An NSA psychiatrist would be using hypnosis soon, to see if they could get a getter description of the car.

The brief call encouraged Colleen to speed up, heading for the Eppes home.

She was only a few miles away when she got another call. Thinking it was her contact again, Colleen quickly flipped the phone open with one hand. "Yes?" She was surprised to hear Megan's voice, and even more surprised at the urgency in it.

"Colleen, you were right. L.A. County dispatch just called me. The team serves as each other's emergency contacts, and they received a silent 9-1-1 call from a location on their officer-watch list. When they couldn't get in touch with Don, they tried me. Colleen, units are being dispatched to the Eppes home now. Someone is in the house. I'm on my way, too. Can you meet me there?"

As is in confirmation, Colleen heard sirens closing in behind her. She swore softly into the phone and sped up again. "Hurry the hell up," she commanded, and flipped the phone shut.


	14. Make It Stop

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 14: Make it Stop**

Alan was ready and waiting when he heard activity outside the kitchen door. Thankfully, his neighbor had finished cutting the tree down, and the brief rap on the wood was quite clear, as were the words: "LAPD. Is anyone there?"

Largely on his back again, Alan drew bag his legs and kicked the door so hard his feet almost went through it. _Damn_, he thought, _maybe I should have done this in the first place…_

More activity. Alan heard the front doorbell ring. "Open up! We received a 9-1-1 call from this address!" Alan rared back and kicked the door again, this time so hard that it shook in its frame. "If you do not open this door by the count of three, we will break it down."

"_It's about damn time,"_ Alan thought. He tried to scoot backwards so that his body was not in the way when they did it.

"One…". Suddenly, Alan heard Colleen's voice, again.

"Just break it the hell down already!" Alan would have grinned, if he could. Deep down, he had always really liked that girl. "Listen, I'm a federal agent. Technically, I control this scene. Write it up that way, and this will never come back to bite you in the ass. Break the door in now, or I will have all your badges before you get back to the precinct."

"_Too bad this whole situation is so royally off the charts,"_ Alan mused, still scooting backwards. _"That woman would be good for Donnie. It's a shame they couldn't have met somehow before Charlie married her."_ Before he could contemplate the absurdity of his own thoughts, two solid hits came from the other side of the door. On the second, the door sprang open and hit Alan, who was still partially in the way. The door bounced almost all the way shut again, but not before a uniformed police officer, gun extended, got a leg through. He was crouching slightly, covered by another officer. Their alert gazes took in Alan's condition, the phone on the floor, and their eyes scanned the kitchen for any other activity.

Presently, Colleen elbowed her way past them, having gotten a glimpse of Alan. She dropped to her knees beside him, and tenderly lifted his head into her lap. She started to work on his gag, while LAPD officers streamed around her, disappearing down the hall toward the utility room, and through the swinging door into the dining room. While she worked, she spoke assuredly and calmly. "It's okay now, Alan, we've got you. We'll get you some help." The gag came loose in her hands, and she removed it while she kept talking. One hand began to wander down the rest of his upper body. "Just let me see how badly you're hurt…let me find out where the blood is coming from, okay?"

Alan's eyes had been locked on Colleen's face all this time, and now they filled with tears. "Not…." His voice came out in a pain-filled whisper from the hours he had spent behind the gag. He tried to clear his dry throat and try again. "Not mine. Had to crawl through it. By refrigerator."

Colleen looked where he had indicated and saw the pool of blood. If it really wasn't his, someone else was injured. What had happened here? She turned her attention back to Alan and smiled, a little wobbily. She hoisted his body up a little higher onto her lap so that she could get at his hands, and started to work on those. "Just let me get this untied, and then I'll get you some water."

"I can sit up," Alan whispered. "Help me sit up…"

Colleen hesitated, then did as he asked. It would certainly make it easier to untie him. Immediately upon achieving some height, however, he turned a sickening shade of green, and she lowered him again. "We'll sit up a little later, okay?"

She practically crawled underneath him to get at his hands, and Alan had a sudden vision of the boys playing "Twister" at one of their birthday parties. "Where are they?" he asked, plaintively. "Are the boys in the house? Whose blood is that?"

Colleen finally loosened the knot and worked at completely releasing Alan's hands. Crap. She had been about to ask the same thing. It didn't sound as if Alan knew much more than she did. Aloud, she kept her voice modulated and calm. "LAPD is clearing the house," she promised. "If Don and Charlie are here, we'll know soon." She finally finished with Alan's hands, and he drew them painfully in front of his body, rubbing the wrists. Colleen was about to lower Alan all the way to the floor, and move on to his feet, when she heard running steps approach the kitchen. Automatically, she drew her weapon and aimed it at the door, which hung off one hinge, and swung lazily back and forth.

Colleen and Alan both relaxed when they heard Megan's voice just before they recognized her face peeking around the corner of the door. "Alan! Don! Charlie! Is anybody…" Her face appeared then, and the words died in her throat. She stood stock still for one second, then kicked it into action and was on the floor at Alan's feet before he knew it. She struggled with the rope, hands shaking. "What happened, Alan? Where are the boys?"

Alan had never been more happy to see two women in his life. Neither had he ever been more terrified. "I..I don't know," he admitted, and his heart constricted as if there were ropes around it, too.

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The first time Manny flicked the switch, Don waited to hear the buzz of current – but all he heard was the solid thunk of Charlie's head against the wall behind him. Charlie's legs jerked spasmodically and his entire body tensed. Although it was obvious he was gritting his teeth against the pain, the whimpers that escaped him still tore at Don. Behind his gag, unable to look away, he whimpered along with him.

The fifth time Manny sent the current into Charlie, he all-but slammed through the wall. Although his eyes were still fuzzy from his concussion, Don had no trouble seeing bubbles of blood trickle out of Charlie's mouth, and he knew that his brother had bitten his tongue. His legs jerked constantly now, even in-between the shocks. His head leaned back against the wall, eyes sqeeuzed shut, grunts of barely-suppressed shouts leaking out of him. Don had stopped trying to yell against his gag, stopped hoping he could find a way to stop it. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought he had stopped breathing.

The eighth time Manny adjusted the dial and slightly moved his hand over the switch, no expression on his face, Charlie's legs raised almost a foot off the floor. One of the electrodes actually fell off a foot, leaving another nasty burn in its place. A guttural scream escaped him, as did all the urine in his bladder, and his upper body slammed three times into the wall before it suddenly relaxed and he slumped sideways, clearly unconscious.

"Stop," Sophia suddenly ordered, and Don turned grateful eyes on her. He hoped he was next. He wanted to be next. He deserved to be next. She planted her hands on her hips. "He can tell us nothing, if you kill him. You have given him too much."

Manny brought his hand away from the generator and looked at her, pouting. "It's low voltage, Mama. This is how Papa trained me. I've done this before, you know."

She raised an eyebrow. "When? On what? A small farm animal at your grandfather's retreat?" Her voice was sarcastic.

Manny blushed, angry and embarrassed. "No! I told you, I was prepared, by my father and my grandfather, to join the family business. My first experience was when I was still 16. I helped Papa with our gardener, Pepe, after Papa learned that you favored him. Did you not ever wonder where he had gone?"

Now Sophia turned red, and her eyes flashed. She raised her voice, yelling in the shell of the hangar. "Why do I seek to avenge such a man?! He lies to me, teaches our son his ways, and kills an innocent man while that son helps! Pepe was my _amigo_, Manuel, only my friend…. " Her voice lowered, then. Were I not my father's daughter, I would give up my quest."

She looked angrily around her, finally settling her gaze on Don. "Let us move to the other one," she suggested. "While the professor is yet unconscious, take the generator and hook the wires up to him. Then awaken the good doctor." Her eyes narrowed, thoughtfully. "Perhaps when he is forced to watch someone he loves suffer, his memory will improve."


	15. That May Not Have Been a Good Idea

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 15: In Retrospect, I'm Not Sure That Was a Good Idea**

Colby arrived at the Eppes home just a few minutes after the paramedics. He quickly located the hub of activity and headed for the kitchen. There he found Colleen hovering near Alan, standing. Megan was still on the floor, clutching his hand; and Alan? Alan was arguing with the EMTs. "I don't _need_ a hospital, I _need_ to talk to these people. I _need_ to find my sons!"

Colby shook his head, approaching Alan to see if he could help calm him down. Sometimes, it was so easy to see where Don got his stubborn streak. As he got closer, he saw the tears still drying on Alan's cheeks, and knew that at other times, it was easy to see where Charlie got his sensitivity.

Colleen's cell rang, and she quickly grabbed it off her waistband and took a few steps away from the crowd. She mostly listened for a few seconds, flipped the cell shut and exchanged a look with Colby. He could see Megan sending Colleen questioning looks, so Colby took a slight detour away from Alan and went to Colleen instead. "What is it? You got something?"

She kept her voice low. "My NSA contact. The daughter and grandson of Jorge Martinez were tracked here, to L.A. Under hypnosis, a mechanic at the private air strip where they landed was able to give a description of the vehicle they're using for ground transportation. He even got a partial plate." She half-snorted in sarcasm. "It shouldn't be too difficult to track it further. Seems Sophia is used to the lap of luxury. She rented a metallic gold Mercedes, fully loaded."

Alan's voice raised again, and Colby half-turned toward him. "Get your hands off me! Megan, tell them to…" A look of horror passed over his face while Colby watched, and he looked over an EMT's shoulder at Colleen. "Did you say Mercedes?"

Colleen gaped at him, feeling guilty for talking too loudly after all. "Don't worry about that, Alan. Let the paramedics take…"

Alan interrupted. "No, listen! Listen! I saw that car. Gold, you said?"

Now all three agents were staring at him with interest. Megan squeezed his hand, drawing his eyes back to her. "When did you see the car, Alan?"

He tried unsuccessfully to sit up, but was unceremoniously pushed back down by an EMT growing rapidly impatient. "When I came home," Alan answered. "Last night…or whenever it was…. I had to park on the street, because Donnie's SUV and Charlie's car were both in the driveway. I parked behind a gold Mercedes with rental plates, it was right in front of the house!"

Colleen met Colby's eyes as he quickly headed for the door he had just come through. "I'll check it out," he said. Colleen offered Alan a quick smile of thanks and reassurance, and was right behind him.

They soon found that Alan was both right, and wrong. The gold Mercedes was indeed still parked in front of the house. But Don's SUV was not in the driveway. If it had been there last night, chances were excellent that Don was there with it. Colleen swallowed hard, and when she turned to go back to the kitchen, Megan was on her way to them. Colleen's heart rate increased. "Alan?"

Megan smiled grimly. "Still arguing with the paramedics." She waited until Colby joined them before she continued. "Listen, I just stepped outside to call my travel agent. I know Alan and Charlie use the same one, because they gave me her name. She told me the resort in Maui called her this morning to remind her they were only obligated to hold the suite one night for no-shows. They needed the room for other guests, unless she could tell them the guys had missed a plane, or something. They never made their trip."

Colleen sighed, frowning at the ground. "Yes they did," she countered. "They just took it as hostages, in Don's SUV."

"Wait a minute." Colby held up a hand. "Wait. I know I missed all the excitement a few months ago, but I thought all that was over. Why would this woman and her son come here?"

Colleen raised her eyes to him and spoke dully. "I studied this organization for months. The Martinez family was very tight. They may have been among the world's leading terrorists – especially Jorge – but the family was very old-world and traditional. She came to avenge their deaths. She blames Charlie…maybe even Don, too, since he was there. Or maybe he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, when she came after Charlie."

"What about you?" Colby asked. "Why wouldn't she come after you?"

Colleen hung her head. "My contact says there have been inquiries made, about my NSA cover name. I think she's trying to find me, too."

"Okay." Megan spoke briskly, thinking as she went. "Okay. Say you're this…Sophia. Once you had Charlie, what would you do with him?"

"That's easy," answered Colby. "I'm here to avenge my family, so I kill him."

Megan shook her head slightly. "But why not just do that here at the house? Why not just kill everyone here?"

Colleen's head shot up and the familiar steel was back in her voice and her eyes. "She doesn't just want to kill Charlie. She wants to do it at the hangar. Some weird sense of poetic justice – the man responsible for her husband's and her father's deaths should die where they did."

"The hangar is virtually abandoned now," put in Colby. "I read a story in the paper just last week. The owner may still be charged with several crimes, and the insurance company is refusing to pay his claim until that's settled. So he's just been letting the place to go to hell while he fights the federal government."

Colleen suddenly started moving. "Take care of Alan," she ordered. "I'm checking out the air strip."

Colby was right behind her. "Not without me, you're not."

A third voice put in an opinion. "We'll take my car, it's fastest. Colby, call David. He's probably on the way here – have him meet us at that little roadside café about a mile from the airfield. If he's still in town, have him stop and pick up Andy at the hotel."

Colleen slipped obediently into the back seat of Megan's car. She wasn't surprised at this turn of events. She had been "married" to Charlie and part of this family for almost a month. This was the kind of loyalty an Eppes inspired in people. Three Eppes in danger at once, and their friends could not get there fast enough.

She just hoped they would find something to bring back to Alan. Preferably, something breathing.

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Manny temporarily disconnected the cables from the generator and started to roll it closer to Don, then reconsidered and shoved the cables back in. Might as well do it all at once. He started back toward Charlie, hand searching in a pocket of his jeans. After a few seconds, smiling triumphantly, he brought out what looked like two wire clips. "Ah. Good. I believe I'll try the ears, this time. The clips will not fall off, as the pad did." He completed the remaining few steps to Charlie, jiggling the clips. "I'll just make some adjustments to the leads."

True to his word, he knelt at Charlie's feet and picked up the lead that he had jerked off one foot. While Manny removed the electrode pad and skillfully replaced it with the clip, Don watched Charlie. He was half on his side on the floor, still unconscious, but Don could see breathing in the labored rise and fall of his chest. Don was miserable. He had been of absolutely no help to either his father – who might be dead back at the house, for all he knew – or to Charlie. He almost looked forward to the torture.

Finished with one lead, Manny removed the other one from Charlie's foot and began to repeat the process. He glanced at Charlie's face, then looked down at his job again. "Mama," he said, pleasantly. "Perhaps you will bring me the pot from the stove. The water should be very hot, by now. I will use the remainder to clean his wound once more." He smiled, relishing the idea. "Yes. That should awaken him."

With a click of her high heels, Sophia retreated to the propane stove. She spied a rag on the ground and used it to pick up the percolater. Soon, she was back slightly behind Manny. "I have it," she said.

"Thank-you." Manny reached up with one hand to give her the cables. He turned slightly and looked up, so that he could see to take the pot from her. It was at that moment that Don saw Charlie move, and he stiffened, and looked harder. Squinting, he could see that Charlie's eyes were open – mere slits, but open. Don would have cried in relief, if the next thing he saw hadn't stunned him into silence. With Manny still slightly turned, Charlie's legs came up quickly, then extended in a powerful kick that landed hard in Junior's solar plexus. He grunted in surprise, in the middle of the coffee pot transfer, and flew backwards several inches. He soon connected with his mother, dousing her with the water and knocking her off her high heels. Don watched in wonder as Sophia, too, went down hard, screaming and clawing at her face, still holding the cables. He heard the crack as her head hit the floor, and soon saw a pool of blood forming around her head.

Quickly Manny scrambled to his feet. Some of the water had spilled on him, as well, and he came up cursing, pulling a knife out of his belt. He charged at Charlie, determined to make him pay. Don had just squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to watch the inevitable, when a strange humming and buzzing filled the air, and he opened them again. Sophia's body was convulsing and arching on the floor, as the water from the spilled pot shorted the generator, and currents of electricity traveled up the attached wires to the soaked cable ends still clutched in her hand. Smoke actually rose from her body, and Manny screamed, seeing it.

"Mama! No! Mama!" The knife clattered to the floor and he staggered awkwardly toward the generator, intending to pull the wires out once he got there. He was only a few feet from it when the generator blew up in his face.

Manny's dead body once again flew back and landed on his mother, and the scraps of wood and paper that had accumulated in the hangar over the last few months ignited. Don and Charlie locked eyes over the space between them, as for the second time that year, the hangar began to burn.


	16. Rescue Me

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 16: Rescue Me**

David Sinclair and Andy Carter actually reached the roadside café before the others. It was off the main highway, and had gotten most of its business from people using and working at the nearby air strip. After the events of a few months ago effectively shut down the air field, the diner was not far behind, and now it stood deserted in a lot of overgrown weeds.

It was near dusk, but as soon as David's car negotiated the last curve before the rendezvous point, he and Andy could see the billowing smoke. David swore, realizing that it was in the correct position to be over the air strip, which he knew from Colby's call was their ultimate destination. His tires spun dusty gravel as he squealed into the deserted parking lot. Without a thought, or word to Andy, he turned and rummaged in his back seat until he crowed triumphantly and sprang back up clutching a small pair of binoculars. Leaving the engine running, David scrambled out the driver's door and jumped onto the hood of his car. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, and cursing, decided to get higher by climbing on the roof of the vehicle. Andy had also exited, and he stood silently next to the open passenger door, staring up at David.

David scanned the immediate area, adjusting the binoculars. He froze in one position for a moment. _"Holy shit,"_ he breathed, and he stunned Andy by jumping off the roof onto the ground as if he did it every day; some sort of superhero, or something. David threw the binoculars into the back seat and looked over the roof at Andy. "Get in the car and call Colleen," he ordered. "Tell her we're going in. The airfield is burning, and Don's SUV is parked next to the hangar that's on fire!"

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Despite his vigorous protests, Alan was bundled up and transported to the hospital. Colleen, Megan and Colby had all disappeared – they hadn't even come to tell him what was going on. He hoped that meant they had some idea of where to find Don and Charlie.

In the trauma center of Huntington Memorial, a doctor had the gall to look at him seriously and say, "Mr. Eppes, you need to calm down. You have a nasty gash on the back of your head, you're exhibiting signs of a serious concussion, and your blood pressure is dangerously high for a man your age."

Alan had sputtered in indignation. "My blood pressure is high because I don't know where my sons are, or whether or not either one of them is alive!" He struggled against the hands of nurses who tried to hold him down. "My blood pressure will continue to rise until you let me the hell out of here so I can find out!" In a move that took even him by surprise, Alan tried – unsuccessfully, he would later be glad to learn – to deck the doctor with a quick uppercut.

He felt a sharp sting in his upper arm, and turned his head to the opposite site of the exam table.

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Don's view of Charlie was soon cut off by smoke. His brother was much closer to the site of the small explosion and the rapidly spreading fire, and Don screamed again into the gag. _"Charlie!",_ he tried to yell, _"Charlie!"_ He pushed himself away from the wall with his bound hands, ignoring the way the universe began to swim, determined to crawl to his brother, straight into the flames if he had to. Don didn't know if Charlie was further injured in the explosion, but he was sure Charlie could not take much more. He himself was already beginning to strangle out coughs, and was having a hard time breathing through the smoke. He didn't know how he was going to reach Charlie. He did know that there was nothing he could do once he got there. But he would be damned if he would watch Charlie die in this hellhole for the second time this year.

At least, not alone.

Don would die with him.

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When the generator blew up and the fire started, Charlie stared at Don and tried to move away from the flames. So far, the fire was moving away from him. The hangar, well-ventilated from its last fire, provided lots of opportunity for the prevailing winds to draw the flames toward the west. Still, he could feel the heat of it, and waited to feel more. Even in his terror, he couldn't seem to find the energy to push beyond his pain, and make his body move. He thought he saw Don struggling to come toward him. That was wrong. Don was near the huge missing door, he should be moving toward it. To safety. _"Donnie,"_ Charlie rasped, trying to raise his voice to be heard over the noise of the fire. _"Donnie…"_

Charlie started crying, the combination of pain, fear for his brother and smoke overtaking him. This was all his fault. All his fault. He never should have taken his very first NSA assignment, and he certainly shouldn't have taken his last. Now, his mistake would cost his brother his life, and Charlie didn't care about the gunshot wound in his leg. He didn't care about the blistered burn that surrounded it, and he didn't care about the beating. He wished the electric shocks had killed him, before he had accidentally started this fire. Dear God, Don was going to die because of him.

With a gargantuan effort, Charlie dragged his body forward almost six inches. "Please," he tried to call out to his brother. "Please get out…." He coughed against the smoke, spiking a fresh agony as his broken rib protested.

Charlie groaned, and his head hit the floor.

He was unconscious, again.

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When Megan finally careened onto the tarmac, she and the other agents with her recognized David emerging from the burning hangar. He was dragging someone out of what remained of the building.

Megan skidded the vehicle to a stop at the edge of the runway, and the three agents tumbled out of the car and began sprinting over the concrete to meet him. As Colby approached in the lead, sickened, he recognized a weakly struggling Don. "WHERE'S CHARLIE?" he screamed across the space that separated them, and David raised his face to answer.

He was still dragging Don away from the building. "INSIDE!", he screamed back. "HE AND ANDY ARE STILL INSIDE!"


	17. Isn't This Supposed to be the Good Part?

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 16: Isn't This Supposed to be the Good Part?**

When Alan began to be sucked back the real world, reality crashed over him like an ocean wave. He lay with his eyes closed, and understood all that was important. Both of his sons were in trouble somewhere, and he was stuck in a hospital, doing them absolutely no good. He hovered on the brink of abject despair, too tired and sad and depressed to care about anything, or to expend the energy required to lift his eyelids. Presently, he felt a decidely feminine touch on his arm. Thinking it had to be a nurse, Alan decided to give it one more shot. Eyes still closed, he poured all he could muster into his voice. "Get the doctor in here, and get me the appropriate AMA forms. I am going to leave this hospital, and I will make it as ugly as I have to."

A soft, familiar voice responded. "Alan, if I make the doctor come in here right now, he'll have to stop working on Don. Are you sure you really want that?"

His eyes and his mouth both popped open, and he regarded Megan's smile. He struggled with an IV line he hadn't realized he had, trying to sit up. "Megan! Don? The doctor is working on Don?" Tears sprang to his eyes. "Dear God in Heaven, you found him..."

Megan increased the pressure on his arm and pushed him back onto the exam table. "Alan, you need to lie back and rest. You've got a concussion, and you're dehydrated, and you had to be mildly sedated." She raised an eyebrow, grinning slightly. "I understand you can be quite a handful."

Alan settled back into a horizontal position, but lifted his hand off the table. Megan immediately took it in her own. "What's wrong with Don? Where did you find him? I want to see him."

Megan tried to soothe him. "Colleen made the connection. He was at the same airfield, the one where Martinez was taken down a few months ago. Colby is waiting right outside the exam room for an update, he'll come and tell us as soon as he knows anything." She tried again to reassure him with a smile. "He was talking, on the way in, Alan. He asked about you..."

Alan finally returned her smile. Thank God. Thank God Donnie was at least conscious and somewhat coherent, and thank God Colleen was such a smart woman. She had found Don today, and he knew she had a lot to do with keeping Charlie alive last... Alan's smile faded and he paled dramatically. Oh, God. Oh, God.

Megan had not said anything about Charlie.

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When the busy trauma attending burst out of the exam room, he almost ran right into a linebacker. He skidded to a halt and looked at Colby in exasperation. "You should be in the waiting area. That's why we call it a 'waiting area'." He held a chart up in front of him in case the linebacker decided to tackle.

Colby settled for a growl. "Look. This trauma center is full of people I care about, and I've got an assignment. My job is to take news about Don to his father, Alan."

The doctor sighed at Colby's glare. "Look, I can appreciate that. But you're not this man's emergency contact — surely _you_ can appreciate that I can't give you any information. Privacy laws and all that."

Colby peered around him at the closed door. "Go back in and ask him. Get him to sign something. We're partners."

The doctor was not unsympathetic. His own cousin was in law enforcement, and he knew about the whole partner thing. Still, he was already on administrative probation for bending too many rules. "Won't work," he finally shrugged. "The patient presented with a head injury, so anything he signed right now would be worthless."

Colby summoned Bad Cop, and stepped a little closer to the doctor. He spoke lowly, but that made him all the more intimidating. "You. Do. Not. Want. To. Know. What. 'Worthless'. Really. Is."

The doctor swallowed. Damn. His cousin never did this sort of thing to him. "T-tell you what," he offered, squeaking a little. "While the patient is undergoing further tests, I'll come and talk to his father myself."

Colby nodded briskly. That would have to do. He stepped back and gestured silently down the corridor toward the exam room Alan waited in. He was sure as hell going to escort this joker. The physician scurried into position ahead of him, and they were halfway there when David, in a soft jog, caught up to them. "Hey," he panted softly. "How's Eppes?"

Colby shook his head. "Don't know," he answered in frustration. This guy won't tell me anything. He'll only talk to Alan." He glanced sideways at David. "Andy?"

David frowned. "It's not good, man. The burns are pretty bad. And the doctor said something about smoke inhalation. They might transfer him to UCLA. He said I should call his wife, fly her out here."

Distressed, Colby concentrated on something he could work up a righteous indignation about. "What the hell?", he fumed. "Your doctor told you all that stuff?" Don's doctor could feel at least two eyes lasering holes in the back of his lab coat, and he sped up a little. "What is it with this dude, anyway?"

Relieved to arrive at Alan's exam room, the doctor pushed the door open — only to see his patient in near hysterics again. A striking honey-blond was trying by herself to calm him down and keep him in a horizontal position, but it looked like Alan was winning. He was dangerously close to ripping the IV out of his arm, and shouting. "I need to know! Tell me about my son! Let me up, dammit Megan, I have to go find him..."

The physician hurried over to the bed. The man did have a head injury himself, and he didn't want to have to sedate him again. Especially not with that scary fed in the room. At least the two male agents had leant their considerable weight to restraining the surprisingly strong Alan. "Mr. Eppes, please! Calm down, calm down...I'm here to tell you about your son. Just try to relax, and I'll tell you your son's condition."

Alan stopped struggling, no longer feeling all the hands on his body. He stared up at the doctor, his eyes a mixture of hope and fear. "Charlie? You know about Charlie?"

The doctor frowned, confused. "I'm sorry. I'm sure the patient's name is Don. Isn't Don your son?"

Alan closed his eyes, finding himself in an impossible position. He needed to hear about the son he knew was alive, and he needed to hear about the son no-one would talk about. How was he supposed to make a choice? His breathing became shallow, and rapid. His mouth worked as he gasped, but no words were emitted. In fact, the next sound that Alan made, was when he burst into tears.


	18. How Much Is Broken?

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 18: How Much Is Broken?**

In the two years that she had known Alan, Megan had tried hard never to think it. As someone trained in the psychological, she knew that it was a pointless and self-defeating observation. Still, she listened to Alan cry over his sons, and wished he was her father.

Quickly, she came out of the chair next to the exam table and moved to Alan's head. She leaned over close, taking his face in both of her hands. She held his eyes with her own and whispered. "Hush, Alan, hush. I'm sorry, I should have told you earlier. Charlie is here, too. We found them both." Alan quieted and brought one hand up to grip hard at her wrist. She repeated herself. "We found them both, Alan. Your boys are both here."

Alan relaxed under her hands. David let go of his ankles and backed away a little, but Colby left a hand on his arm. He pretended that he just wanted to be ready if Alan went off the deep end, again, but really – he just wanted to provide the man with another anchor.

Megan smiled at Alan and kissed him lightly on the forehead before she straightened up. She gripped his hand and turned slightly so that Alan and the doctor could see each other's faces. "There," she stated, businesslike and composed. "All better. Tell us about Don."

The trauma attending glanced at Colby. At least the linebacker was on the other side of the table. He experienced a dilemma. Obviously Alan was comfortable with these people, especially the woman. She had calmed him down faster than Haldol. The doctor didn't want Alan getting upset again – his blood pressure was already dangerously high. Still. Those damn privacy laws.

He attempted a small smile. "As I told this young man in the hall, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss…"

Alan interrupted him, his voice suddenly taking on such an edge of steel the physician started to wonder if he was bipolar on top of everything else. "These people," Alan informed him sternly, "are the rest of my family. My other children."

The doctor purposely did not look at David. He hedged. "Um…." Well, shit. He had not said "um" since he was 16 years old. He sighed and tilted his head, still looking at Alan.

Alan raised an eyebrow. "I told you, these are my children. I'm prepared to sign any document you'd like me to sign, attesting to that fact."

Well, shit, again. So his administrative probation might be extended. "Fine. I'll have the clerk place the proper papers in your chart. Don was conscious when he was brought in, which is good. He was fairly coherent. It's hard to judge how much of his distress came from the concussion, and how much came from concern over you and his…his other brother. He does have an obvious head injury. A few stitches were required in the back of his head, and his pupils are still slightly uneven. He's having problems with dizziness, and nausea. He lapsed into unconsciousness once, for a brief period, and had a hard time remembering where he was when he woke up. I've sent him for a CT scan. Apparently this injury occurred almost two days ago, when yours did, and he's still severely affected. I suspect a skull fracture."

Alan gasped. "Oh, no…"

The doctor went on, quickly. "Don't misunderstand, Mr. Eppes. It's good that he eventually figures out what's going on. According to what he was able to tell me, his symptoms have improved greatly since the incident. We need to check for subdural hematomas – bleeding in the brain – but frankly, that would surprise me."

"What can you do for a skull fracture?" put in Colby, hand still resting lightly on Alan's arm.

"That depends on the kind we're dealing with. I'll have to withhold judgments on treatments and prognosis until I've seen the CT scan and conferred with one of our neurologists."

Alan spoke in a small voice. "Is he hurt anywhere else?"

"Surprisingly, not really," the doctor answered. "Like yourself, he is dehydrated – but that will be easy enough to fix."

"I want to see him. And my other son."

The doctor nodded briefly. "I understand. I'll arrange that as soon as it's feasible. Don is anxious about you, as well, and I feel that a visit would be beneficial for you both. I'm not sure the…the entire family is a good idea, yet. As for his brother, the man brought in with him – other doctors are working on his case, and I'm afraid I really don't know anything. I will send one of them down here to talk to you, though."

"Thank-you," Alan said, sadly. Doctors, as in plural – Charlie needed more than one doctor. That couldn't be good. He cleared his throat. "I'd still like to leave. I feel fine."

The physician smiled. "Ah. Your blood pressure says otherwise. I'm sure that's at least partially due to understandable concern over your sons, but added to your recent head injury and dehydration, I recommend we admit you for 24-hour observation. We'll need to keep giving you IV fluids for several hours, anyway. Your own CT scan was clear, so I'm not anticipating any problems."

Alan glanced at Megan, disgruntled. She grinned conspiratorily at him and squeezed his hand. "They both have head injuries. Is it possible to put him and Don in the same room for the night?"

The attending was backing toward the door, on his way to find either the CT scan or Charlie. For the first time, his smile was broad, and relaxed. "Yes," he agreed right away. "Yes. I think that is an excellent idea."

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For a man who had obviously been through so much, Dr. Ellison found Charlie strangely composed. From what he had been able to gather, Charlie had been tortured. His lower left leg had a significant bullet graze; it really just barely qualified as a graze. It could just as easily be described as a through-and-through that miraculously missed the tibia. He was so thin, there was still some muscle damage. The wound was also surrounded by second-degree burns; caused, he told them calmly when asked, by someone pouring boiling water over him. He had obviously been beaten, and kicked. The x-rays had shown one broken rib, one cracked one, and his entire bruised rib cage said there were several more bruised. Blood tests had momentarily confused the doctor. The electrolytes were way out of whack, and kidney function was not normal. Simple dehydration of a few days' duration would not account for such numbers. Then Charlie had mentioned, almost casually, that he had been electrocuted several times. He said that his feet still burned a little, and the doctor had seen that someone had hooked up electrodes to the souls of his feet. The burn on his left foot was also second-degree. The right foot had fared better.

By the time he was half finished with his exam, the doctor was convinced Charlie was in a state of emotional denial. He asked several times about his brother, and his father, and the DEA agent who had dragged him out of a burning building. His breathing was compromised from the smoke and the rib injuries, and he was receiving high octane oxygen. He kept removing the mask to ask about them, so the doctor finally gave him a canula.

Waiting for a second set of blood gases, Dr. Ellison admitted the woman lurking in the hall for a few minutes. She was another DEA agent, but appeared to be more than that to the young man, and Dr. Ellison found himself wanting to offer him more than some tape around his ribs and an IV in his arm. He got more than he bargained for. Standing in the corner of the room writing orders on Charlie's chart for a waiting nurse, he overheard the conversation.

The woman had entered a little reluctantly, which at the time he put down to discomfort in medical surroundings. He saw that sort of thing all the time. "Hey, Charlie," she said, her voice low, and husky and full of feeling. "How ya doin'?"

His patient had blinked up at his visitor. "Colleen. I'm pretty sure I killed those people."

Startled, the doctor looked up in time to see her gently rubbing his arm. "You did what you had to, Charlie, and I know you. You did it for Don, to try and keep him safe. That's always why we do it." She chuckled bitterly. "Doesn't make much sense, does it? We end up taking someone out, in order to keep others safe."

The patient's eyes wandered and Dr. Ellison looked quickly back at the chart, eavesdropping in earnest, now. "I guess. I was just trying to make him stop. He was going after Don, next, and I couldn't let him do that. I didn't mean…I didn't mean for all that to happen…" The doctor heard eternal world-weariness creep into the patient's voice. "But if I had known? If I had known, I still would have done it."

The woman didn't answer, and the doctor heard breathing and nothing else for almost a full minute before the man spoke again. "Do you know how anyone is? I can't get them to tell me."

Colleen shook her head. "David is with Andy, and Colby is with Don. Megan went to be with your father." She forced a note of cheerfulness into her voice. "Hey. No news is good news, right?"

At that moment, the door swung open and a technician bustled through with the second set of blood gases. Dr. Ellison accepted them and glanced at the woman. "I need to continue my exam, if you'll excuse us now."

She smiled so brightly he thought the fluorescent lights in the room were malfunctioning. "Of course. I'll just step outside, Charlie. I'll be right outside the door." She patted him on the arm again and followed the tech into the hallway.

Dr. Ellison approached Charlie. "I'm going to admit you to ICU for the night. I want your electrolytes and kidney function monitored closely. Perhaps tomorrow we can move you to the general population."

Charlie nodded, looking almost disinterested. "Okay."

His demeanor disturbed the doctor, especially in the light of what he just heard, combined with what he already knew. "It will be a while before you go up. I'd like to have one of our psychiatric staff come and talk to you, while you're waiting."

Charlie looked him in the eye, and spoke clearly and distinctly. "I appreciate the offer," he said. "I think I'll pass."

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**A/N: Dudes. Come on. Would I kill Charlie? (Anybody standing within two feet of him maybe -- except Don -- but never Charlie. I find permanent brother separation quite beyond me.)**

**Eye Update for the Interested: The left eye (the one that hurt like a son-of-a-fill in the blank when they lasered) is forming some scar tissue. There was also a casual mention of cataracts in each eye, which as of this moment require no intervention. In three weeks I will take some test that will determine the extent of damage to my optic nerve(s). I had new glasses for four days before they were taken away again because they aren't right in some way (I guess the walking into walls was a hint). I am a graphic designer/prepress publication specialist, so at the moment I am blowing everything way-the-hell up on the computer, taking off my (old) glasses, and leaning one inch from the screen. Yet still I update for you. (Cue violins.)**


	19. Family Reunion

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel **

**Chapter 18: Family Reunion**

Hospital personnel was kind enough to coordinate the transfer of the two elder Eppes; mostly because their doctor, still being trailed by the pit-bull fed, insisted on it. As Don and Alan were taken from their trauma center exam rooms, stops were made, and there was an Eppes family reunion in Charlie's exam room before he was taken to ICU.

All the physicians involved had agreed that although the men deserved and needed some time together, none of them could be trusted to stay where he belonged — horizontal on a gurney. They found the largest male nurse on duty, and planted him in Charlie's room. The idea was for him to be unobtrusive, but it didn't work out too well. For one thing, the rooms were designed for one gurney, not three. For another, he really was a large male nurse. Don and Alan's attending wished he had thought to request his assistance earlier. He could probably run a decent interference, if the need arose.

Alan got to Charlie's room first, and his gurney was placed close enough to his son's so that Alan could stay put and still touch Charlie. It was all he could do not to jump off and lay a full-out hug on the boy, though. He was only able to restrain himself because Charlie was shirtless, huddled halfway under a warming blanket, and enough of him was exposed that Alan could see the bruises, and the taped ribs. One foot extended beyond the blanket, as well. There was gauze bandaging wrapped all around it, as well as around all of the lower leg Alan could see. Charlie's eyes were closed, but Alan knew he wasn't sleeping. He hadn't been this man's father for 32 years without learning when he was faking it.

Alan rolled up on his side, negotiating with his own IV as well as Charlie's. He reached out and touched his son's face, felt the rough stubble and swallowed hard. "Charlie. My baby. Daddy's here now. You'll be all right. We'll all be all right."

Charlie leaned into Alan's hand, turning his head and opening his eyes. "Dad? You okay?"

His voice was a hoarse whisper — probably from the smoke inhalation the doctor had told Alan about — but what really concerned him were Charlie's eyes. They were almost black with pain, and fear, and something else — guilt? What was Charlie doing to himself now? What could he possibly feel guilty about? Not only that, the eyes were dry. There were no tears leaking out the corners, absolutely no shining moisture at all. Charlie wasn't given to crying fits, but he was a sensitive man, and he had been through things Alan didn't even know about yet, but still was sure he didn't want to think about -- he imagined that they were terrible. Plus, Alan was crying. Charlie was the kind of man who at least teared-up, when he saw someone else crying.

Alan dropped his hand to Charlie's upper arm, careful of the bruises he could see there, and the IV. He tried to dry up his own waterworks and smiled, shakily. "Yes, son, yes. I'm fine. They're just keeping me overnight for observation."

Charlie started to take a deep breath, but it obviously pained him and choked off in a sigh. His eyes drifted shut, and this time, Alan thought he might genuinely fall asleep. He was probably on some kind of pain medication. Instead, a small smile played around his son's lips. "Megan told me you crawled to the phone, yanked it off the wall and dialed 9-1-1 with your hands tied. That is outrageous, Dad…totally awesome…"

Alan just smiled as Charlie's voice began to fade. "We do what we have to," he quipped, and was startled when Charlie's eyes shot open as if Alan had hurt him, somehow. Concerned, he was about to ask what was wrong when the door swung open and Don was pushed through. His gurney was parked on the other side of Alan, and he quickly began the complicated process of flipping over so that he could touch that son. Don was staring at him, and Alan smiled widely. "Donnie! Son, come here…. Charlie, your brother is here!"

Don's gurney wasn't still yet before his father's hand was on his face. He reached up his own hand to grab his father's wrist, and even though he was dizzy again and his aim was off, causing him to miss twice, Don grinned like a maniac. "Dad! They told me you were okay, but I'm so happy to see you!" His grin faltered when he finally made contact with Alan. His eyes grew suspiciously moist — unlike Charlie's, which was opposite how it should be. "I was so scared," he admitted quietly, and Alan was glad he was lying down. The last time he heard Don admit fear, he was four years old, little legs churning as he hurtled across the lawn toward Alan, convinced the neighbor's dog was going to jump the fence and eat him. Even though Alan frequently encouraged him now to be more honest about his feelings, it was discombobulating to hear.

He was further taken aback when Don glanced furtively over the top of his shoulder, toward Charlie, but definitely at his feet. He didn't seem to want to look at his brother, and he quickly moved his eyes back to his father and spoke lowly. "Is Charlie going to be all right? I heard he's going to ICU." He looked and sounded even guiltier than Charlie had. What the hell had those bastards made his sons do?

Alan stammered a little. "W-well, yes, Donnie. He has several injuries the doctors want to monitor closely tonight, b-but talk to him yourself. He's awake." He eyed the bouncer posing as a nurse, considered an option, and quickly rejected it. "I'm just sorry I can't move and let you two get closer to each other."

Don was silent long enough to increase Alan's anxiety, and he intervened. He turned his head toward his youngest again. "Charlie? Son, did you fall asleep? Donnie's here."

Charlie lay with his eyes closed, and wished he had fallen asleep. When Don had been pushed inside the room, Charlie was relieved beyond measure to see him, and hearing his voice almost cracked Charlie's careful composure. His eyes had been open long enough to see, though, how Don couldn't even look at him. He heard Don speaking about him, but Don wouldn't speak _to_ him. It was obvious. Don was disgusted and disappointed. Charlie's NSA involvement just kept coming back like bad sushi, biting them all in the ass. To make matters worse, Don had seen Charlie kill those people, and start a fire that almost killed Don.

For his father's sake, Charlie opened his eyes and tried to smile. Alan lifted his head a little, ever wary of the glaring bouncer-nurse, so that Charlie and Don could make eye contact. Charlie tried to think of something to say. _"I'm sorry"_ was not enough. _"How's that skull fracture the doctor told me about?"_ would just remind Don of something else that was Charlie's fault. _"Did you hear about the DEA agent who may die because of me?" _was a little self-centered. He settled for the one true thing he could say aloud. "I'm happy to see you awake. Your doctor said it's a linear skull fracture, with no sign of bleeding in the brain. I'm glad, Don."

Alan dropped his head back to the gurney. His neck was tired, and he was bumfoozled in his sons. Was Charlie going to ask Don about the weather, next? He stared at the ceiling, waiting for answers to fall from the sky, while Don responded to Charlie in an oddly distracted voice. He might have been talking to a teller at a bank, or a clerk at a grocery store.

"Yeah, Charlie, I'll be good as new in a couple of days," Don anwered. "Um… how's your…" Don wasn't sure which injury to ask about. "Your…leg?" There. That could mean the burned foot, too.

The nurse suddenly stepped forward, eyes on the monitors still attached to Charlie. "Okay, party's over. We've still got some work to do before we get him to ICU."

Alan looked at him, worried. "Is he all right?" He turned his head back to Charlie. His eyes were closed again, and it looked like he was having a little trouble breathing. "Charlie? Son?" Alan struggled to sit up.

Instantly, and miraculously, the large nurse squeezed himself in-between the gurneys and pressed him back down with one hand, while he felt Charlie's forehead with the other. "He's fine. I just think he's had enough for now. Pulse, resps and BP are all increasing slightly, but it's nothing major. I don't feel a fever."

"I'm fine, Dad," Charlie put in weakly. His voice did nothing to reassure Alan, and Don's silence about the whole thing was starting to make him angry. The nurse popped out of the space he had made and took a few steps to the door.

While he opened it and called in the orderlies who were transporting Alan and Don, Alan got another chance to look at Charlie. He was pale, breathing rapidly and shallowly, but his eyes were open and looking at him. In fact, much to Alan's surprise, he winked. "Really, Dad. It's okay. I'm okay. I'll be out of ICU in a few hours. You should go to your room and get some rest." The haunted look crept back into his eyes and he frowned a little. "Please, Dad, I'm sorry…"

Alan didn't know what Charlie was sorry for. It could be something generic, like _"Sorry you're hurt",_ or _"Sorry to cut this visit short". _Possibly, it could be something more specific, like _"Sorry Don seems to have pulled a personality transplant on you," _or _"Sorry I feel like shit". _What Alan did know was that he didn't want Charlie to be sorry. Not anymore. They were all alive. They would all recover. They were all together. He couldn't understand why that did not seem to be enough for his sons.

Something beyond horrible must have happened to them.

But he would fix them. He was their father, and he would fix them. He would make it all better, he would erase that look in their eyes, or he would die trying.


	20. Tell Me How You Really Feel

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel **

**Chapter 20: Tell Me How You Really Feel**

Don's team had reluctantly returned to the office. Now, they had two cases' worth of paperwork to complete, and they were minus the DEA agents. Colleen stayed at the hospital while doctors decided whether or not to transfer Andy to UCLA.

She was pacing the waiting room when Charlie's doctor approached her. "Excuse me. You're the woman who was with Charles Eppes earlier?"

She stopped pacing and looked at him, a little frightened. "Well, yes…but I'm not really part of the family…"

"I understand that," the trauma physician assured her. "Family seems to be the last thing he needs, right now."

She tilted her head, confused. "What?"

Dr. Ellison sighed a little before answering. "It's just that we went to a lot of trouble to arrange for all the men to see each other, and my nurse ended up cutting the visit short because Charlie's vital signs started to get out of control. He's stable again, and about to go up to the ICU. I…I don't know what it is about him; something about the look on his face. I feel…quite unscientific, but he looks so _alone_, and _sad_. I found myself asking if he would like to see someone briefly before he went up. I may not have been clear enough. I meant one of our staff psychiatrists, but he asked if you were still here. Colleen, right?"

Colleen nodded and smiled briefly. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have an undergraduate degree in psychology."

"Does Charles know that?", the doctor mused. "Maybe that's why he asked for you."

This time Colleen shook her head. "I don't think so. I really don't know why he asked for me…are you sure he didn't want Megan, the other female agent? They've become quite close…"

"No, no, I'm sure he said 'Colleen'," he confirmed. "I realize you're waiting to hear about your partner, and if something comes up, I'll be sure to come to the exam room and get you. Besides, I'd like you to stay only a few minutes, anyway. They're ready for him in ICU right now."

She could hardly refuse. In truth, she didn't really want to – she just had no idea why Charlie would pick her. Colleen was still trying to figure it out when she walked quietly into his exam room. The large male nurse who was still there took that opportunity to leave, and soon Charlie and Colleen were alone in the room.

She cautiously approached the gurney, unsure whether or not he was awake. His eyes were closed. "Charlie?"

She kept her voice low, but his eyes immediately opened. He stared at her for a moment, let his eyes travel around the room, and then back to her. "Hi."

She crossed her arms over her chest, cold in the exam room, and smiled. "Hey. You need something?"

His eyes were serious, the set of his face grim. He searched her face. "No-one has mentioned that man who dragged me out of the hangar, for a long time. I woke up on the runway, when Colby was taking me from him. I saw him run back inside. Who was he, again? Colby said something in the ambulance about DEA? But what would they be doing there?" His eyes wandered. "Maybe I got it wrong..."

Colleen's face darkened. "No, Charlie. You heard correctly. That was Andy Carter, my partner. I'm with the DEA now, and we were assigned to work with the L.A. FBI office this week on a drug/murder case."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "Is that why Don wanted to leave town all of a sudden?"

She blushed. "Probably. I'm pretty sure he didn't want you to know I was here…. And I'm _very_ sure he didn't want to work with me."

"I still don't understand. How did you all get to the hangar?"

"We can talk about that later," she answered. "What's important is that we got there, right?"

His furrow deepened to a frown. "What…what about your partner? I did see him run back inside, didn't I?"

Colleen sighed, and covered her fear with anger. "Stupid call. He shouldn't have done that. You and Don were out, he should have left those other two there. Coroner thinks the autopsy will show they died from causes other than the fire, anyway. Has a damn hero complex, sometimes."

Charlie paled. "Is he all right?"

Colleen couldn't repay his trust in her with lies. "No. He's alive, but has second and third-degree burns on 20 percent of his body, and severe smoke inhalation. He was almost out with the woman when a beam fell. He was trapped until David and Colby got him out."

Charlie groaned and closed his eyes. "God. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Colleen."

She heard his heart monitor increase and reached out to lightly touch his arm. "Hey. Not your fault. He's getting good care here, and they may send him to UCLA, to the burn unit."

Charlie swallowed thickly and opened his eyes again, startling even a hardened DEA agent with the depth of pain in them. "You're right, though. They were both dead. I told you, I killed them."

A tiny hole opened in Colleen's soul. When Charlie had claimed earlier that he had "killed those people", she had assumed there was some sort of physical interaction, but didn't believe a small, injured man bound ankle and wrist could have killed two people. So she had reassured him and assumed his pain medication had distorted his memory. Had he really been able to fight back on that level, somehow? "Charlie…"

He looked toward the wall, away from her. "It…it was a chain reaction, but because of me, the generator exploded, and the fire started. I almost killed Don, and I may have killed Andy... God, Colleen, I'm sorry!"

Woah. There were definitely some details she had missed. She wondered if someone else on the team had gotten them. Colleen didn't want to push Charlie to tell her right now, though – she could still hear the monitor racing. "Hey," she finally offered lamely.

He looked at her again. His eyes were dull and flat, now. "Don hates me. He saw me do it. He saw me kick that boy, and he knows it's all my fault. He's disgusted by me. I should have died in the fire."

Okay. Enough was enough.

Colleen moved a little closer to the gurney, dragging a chair with her. She sat down so that she could be more-or-less on the same level as Charlie. "You're wrong," she said, firmly and loudly. "You couldn't be more wrong."

He shook his head. "He can't even look at me, or talk to me…"

She purposely moved her hand on his arm so that she pressed down on one of the myriad of bruises. Charlie's eyes widened, while Colleen's narrowed. "You're an idiot," she said.

Charlie's eyes got wider.

She stomped her foot once. "True, you have some smoke in your head, but come on, Charlie. This is Don we're talking about. Don is Andy on steroids. Talk about a hero complex. He feels guilty, genius."

Charlie looked genuinely confused. "For what? He was tied up, gagged…20 feet away. Unconscious half the time. He has a skull fracture! What could he possiby have to feel guilty about?"

Colleen lessened the pressure on his bruise, smiled and shook her head. "What could _you_ possibly have to feel guilty about, Charlie? Did you kill someone with intent and malice aforethought, or did you just try to get yourself and your brother free? Did you set the hangar on fire purposely?"

His eyes finally watered. "But…I feel so badly…"

She lifted an eyebrow. "Yes. You do. You will feel badly, for a while, and you'll never feel good about this – but you're not guilty, Charlie. Never feel guilty. As for Don...he's your older brother, he's been protecting you all your life. Complicate that with the fact that he protects society for a living. He found himself in a situation he's never been in before – hurt, watching you suffer, and unable to help you. Is it so hard to imagine that he feels like he let you down, somehow?"

A tear escaped Charlie's eye as he shook his head. "He didn't. He couldn't. Doesn't he know that?"

"Maybe you should remind him, next time you see him," Colleen suggested. "Even federal agents need to hear stuff like that now and then."

He lifted up his other hand and brushed at his eyes. When he dropped it, he regarded Colleen solemnly. "You know him so well," he observed. "You love him, don't you?"

Holy crap. Colleen was glad she was sitting down. She backpeddled as fast as she could and hated herself for blushing furiously. "Charlie, I'm just saying things I know from being in the same line of work…"

He closed his eyes tiredly. "Now who's the idiot?" he asked, just before he fell asleep.


	21. Tough Love Tough Luck

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel **

**Chapter 21: Tough Love; Tough Luck**

By evening, Alan was allowed to sit in the large, comfortable recliner next to Don's bed. Now that he had seen and spoken to both his sons – and had a few hours of IV therapy – Alan was feeling much better.

Physically, at least.

He wasn't happy that he was not being allowed to go to the ICU to see Charlie. He was less-than-thrilled that Don seemed to be quiet and withdrawn, and was not responding to the medical intervention as quickly as Alan would have liked. The very words "skull fracture" just scared the hell out him, "linear" or not. It was hard to imagine how sick Don must have been, and that he could actually return to his job after this. Alan intended to move his eldest – lock, stock and barrel – back into the house, at least for the month before he could go back on desk duty. Doctors expected him released to full field duty within three months, and Alan found that pretty damn amazing. So the prognosis for Donnie was good. Still, he wasn't looking all that chipper tonight. It made Alan feel slightly guilty for what he was going to say.

He had watched Don sleep for almost an hour, then chatted with him about nothing for a while after he awoke. When it looked like Don was fading again, Alan cleared his throat. "Son. I'm really feeling much better."

Don blinked at him. He knew his father well enough to know that was a preliminary statement, but damned if he could anticipate what the punch line was. He frowned slightly. Unless Alan was hiding something, and really _didn't_ feel much better? "Honestly, Dad? We can call someone, if you're not…"

Alan smiled at Don's concern. "Honestly, Don. I fully anticipate being released sometime tomorrow. You heard the doctors; you'll probably be here a few days."

Don's frown deepened. "Know. I'll argue with them as soon as I can walk a straight line." He looked chagrined. "Or walk at all, maybe."

Alan smoothed Don's hair, although it was cropped so short these days, that was a difficult task. "It won't be long, Donnie. If you and your brother do what the doctors say, you'll both be home in no time." He withdrew his hand and flashed an evil grin. "Besides, I need a day or two to make gelatin."

Don groaned, but smiled at his father. The smile quickly faded. "You think Charlie's okay?"

Alan settled back in the chair a little. "Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Don struggled to sit up and spoke in a near-panic. "What? Did something happen? What is it?"

Alan leaned forward again and easily pushed Don back on the bed. "No, no, I'm sure he's fine. In fact, the doctor asked me earlier if I thought you two would like to be roomies for a few days, once I'm released and Charlie is out of the ICU."

Don relaxed a little, but his eyes grew guarded. "Well, yeah, of course. If they can do that."

Alan left his hand resting on Don's arm, where it landed after he had persuaded him back into the bed. He looked at his son seriously. "You're sure? Because, Don…I will not allow you two boys to hurt each other. You've both been through enough."

Don's eyes widened as he drew in a quick, sharp breath. He stared at his father. "Hurt him? Dad, I would never hurt Charlie. Why do you think I would hurt him?"

Alan sighed and leaned back again. "Because of what happened downstairs. Or what didn't happen, or something. You were both not yourselves. That's certainly understandable, under the circumstances, but I could tell it hurt Charlie when you…when you…. Don, you talked to each other as if you had just met, and weren't all that optimistic about the relationship. Weren't _you_r feelings hurt, too?"

Don squeezed his eyes shut and rolled more fully onto his back. _Crap. Crap._ How could he tell his father what a failure he had been? How could he explain what Charlie had been brought to do, what he had to live with the rest of his life, all because the big brother who should protect him couldn't fulfill his responsibilities? Did Charlie hurt his feelings downstairs? No. Any distance Charlie started keeping from him, Don deserved. Charlie didn't hurt him; his own inadequacies hurt him. Don worked his throat, swallowing silently, and abject misery etched into his closed face.

Alan watched him quietly for a few seconds, and then, as only his father could do, read his mind – and his heart. "Donnie." His voice was tender, and soft, and full of love and regret. "Donnie. You have a skull fracture. You were undoubtedly unconscious a great deal of the time. You were always tied. Tell me what you could have done differently."

Don opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, and did not even move to wipe away the tears that escaped the corners. "I should have been more alert at the house," he said, thickly. "I should have heard it when they attacked you outside, and I should have been able to get Charlie down before they shot him. I, I, I should have…"

Alan brushed his tears away for him, speaking lowly. "Oh, Donnie. No man could have done all those things. You're a wonderful son, sweetheart, but you're only a man, after all. No-one expects you to leap tall buildings in a single bound. At least, none of us out here do."

Don sniffed. "Then why can't Charlie even look at me anymore? He knows I didn't keep either one of you safe."

Alan moved his hand to the top of Don's head, and played with the scruff of hair there. He thought absently that his sons were just extremists, in the hair department. He couldn't get one to cut it short enough, and the other went too far in the other direction…. He forced himself to focus again on the conversation. "How would you know that, Don? I don't believe you were looking at him either. How do you think that made him feel?"

Don looked at him, the guilt compounding in his moist eyes, and Alan could have kicked himself. The last thing he had wanted to do was make Don feel responsible for something else. He tried to backpeddle. "Look, that's not what I meant. You're not making him feel guilty any more than he is doing it to you. You're both doing it to yourselves."

Don's eyes made room for confusion. "Why would Charlie feel guilty? Dad, he was incredible. He tried to take care of me. He took so much from them, they hurt him so badly…and in the end, he had reserves of strength like I've rarely seen before, in anyone. He should feel like a hero, Dad, not guilty…."

Alan clucked his tongue and shook his head a little. "You boys. Men, I should say. You're not the 10-year-old walking his 5-year-old brother to school, anymore. You wish you could have protected him, and you're beating yourself up because you couldn't. You love him. News flash, Donnie: Your brother loves you, too. He feels guilty for the same reasons you do – and neither one of you is right. Stubborn, but not right."

Don seemed to be considering the possibilities, and a tiny bit of wonder and hope entered his expression. Although it pained him to do it, Alan continued. "Don, the two of you and these ridiculous expectations you have for yourselves; you're not just making yourselves miserable. You're both letting it hurt each other, and build a wall between you. You've worked so hard these last few years to build a bridge, instead – I just don't want to see all that effort wasted."

Don swallowed again, painfully. Unshed tears and suppressed emotion were intensifying his headache, and he carefully rolled his head on the pillow so that he was looking at the wall. Alan let him think. He had just about decided that Don had fallen asleep again, when his son finally spoke again. "You're right," he said simply, "about everything."

Alan smiled at the back of Don's head. "You don't mind if I ask for that in writing?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Charlie could feel the fire. _

_It was everywhere. _

_It pulled at his leg, licked at his feet, burned within his very soul. He was beyond hot, past thirsty, and he hurt. It hurt to burn, and it hurt worse to burn slowly. He wished the fire would hurry up and take him, if it was going to._

_He could hear the flames crackle, and occasionally, he heard something else beneath them. A humming, or groaning, and he knew that whoever that was probably felt the flames too. A fire this large would eat everything in its path. Charlie panted for air, and knew the end was finally near._

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"How high? When did his fever spike?"

"103 right now, doctor. It's been climbing for the last three hours."

Dr. Ellison frowned at Charlie's chart. "Kidney function is still compromised, I see. How's his breathing?"

"I was going to suggest intubation. It's very labored, and inefficient. Check his pulse-ox stats."

The doctor did and then looked back at the eager young intern. He forced the chart back at the doctor-ette and spoke with unmistakeable displeasure. "Leave him the hell alone. If you just want to add procedures to your repertoire, you're on the wrong rotation. That young man has been through enough already. His stats aren't great, but intubation is not called for at this time. Did you fail that test in med school?"

The junior doc shifted uncomfortably, but spoke defensively. "What about his fever? His kidneys are not detoxing his blood well enough..."

Dr. Ellison pulled the student aside. "He's been shot, boiled, beaten, electrocuted and who knows what else. He's entitled to a fever. Kidney function is not normal, but they are actually performing better than they were four hours ago. You did check the chart, right?" The intern reddened, and didn't answer. Charlie's doctor continued his tirade. "The man's body, and mind, need to heal. The last thing he needs is more violation, unless it's a life-saving decision. This is why he's in ICU -- to receive the best nursing care available." The weary physician ran a hand through his hair and muttered. "God help me, I don't remember being this procedure-happy when I was an intern." He reached toward the waistband of his scrubs -- his pager was going off. He glanced at it, then back at the intern. "My orders stand as written," he declared, and after one last glare, he was gone.


	22. Awakenings, II

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel**

**Chapter 22: Awakenings, II**

Don awoke the next morning determined to get out of bed and walk to the ICU. These people were crazy if they thought they could keep him from visiting Charlie. He figured his father must have already gone, because the room was empty. Besides, he felt much better, today. He was only seeing one of everything, and he wasn't particularly dizzy, lying on his back. The dull ache in his head was a definite improvement over the axe buried there for the last couple of days.

Don willed himself to move. "Getting up now," he narrated, hoping hearing the words outloud would jump-start his body. He put forth an enormous amount of effort, for at least forever, and finally got a grip on the bed rail.

If he wasn't refusing to think about it, he would admit that this was not going as well as planned.

He pulled, using the rail as leverage, knowing that he would have to sit up in bed to figure out how to lower the damn thing. Why the hell were both rails up, anyway? He had to piss, to make matters even more pressing, and he would shoot someone before he would use that ridiculous urinal, again. After, say, about a week and a half of work, Don's upper half began to gain some altitude. He grinned in triumph, felt a surge of energy fueled by pride, and achieved a 45-degree angle.

Then he threw up.

He observed the results, soaking into the covers and running off the bed onto the floor, and swore. He hadn't seen that coming. He could do without seeing it now.

"Oh, no. Lie back down, Donnie, I'll call the nurse." Alan had materialized beside his bed.

Don hadn't even heard the door open, over the pounding in his head. "Sorry, Dad," he mumbled, and stubbornly stayed where he was. "Wanta go see Charlie."

He heard worry and frustration in his father's voice as he pushed the call button and summoned a nurse. Then Don felt a hand pushing him back toward the pillow. "You'll get up when they say it's all right." Alan _tsked_, using both hands to make sure Don didn't slam too hard into the bed. "I just saw Charlie. He'll be your roomie before the day is out, don't worry…"

Even in his current state of debilitation, Don could hear that Alan was doing enough of that for both of them. He opened eyes he didn't realize were closed and searched his father's face. "He okay? Tell me."

Alan sighed, using one of his retrieved hands to rub at his face. "Everything is wonderful, Don. I found one son covered in sweat, almost delirious with fever, and came back to find the other covered in vomit."

Don gripped the rail again, prepared to repeat his aborted attempt at freedom. "Either help me or get outta way," he growled.

Alan pushed him back down with one finger. "Stop that. They tell me it's not as bad as it looks. Charlie is sick, but not sick enough for ICU. He'll be transferred here as soon as my paperwork is completed for the release, and housekeeping does what they have to do; although I told them that is unnecessary." He sounded slightly affronted. "It's not as if we aren't exposed to each other all the time." He cleared his throat and held Don in place. "Anyway. Dr. Ellison says that Charlie's leg is infected, but his kidneys are functioning at a nearly normal level again."

Don winced. That reminded him. "So are mine," he mumbled.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Colleen flipped her cell phone shut and kept pacing in front of the UCLA Medical Center. Megan was sweet. She was very concerned about Andy. Don's entire team had been very helpful. David had picked up Andy's wife at the airport, and brought her to UCLA. He had even helped her get settled in the special temporary housing they offered for the families of patients. Colby got Colleen in contact with an Army buddy of his, who had recovered nicely from serious burns he had received in Afghanistan. The man had taken her phone call last night at 1:00 a.m., his time. He had made several helpful suggestions, informing Colleen what to watch for, and providing the names of various specialists and therapists.

Megan had just informed her that Alan was being released today, Charlie was being moved out of the ICU, and Don was progressing on-schedule — which was too slow, in his opinion. So by all rights, Colleen mused as she sank onto a bench, she really shouldn't be moping around feeling…feeling like she felt. She should be grateful. For the second time this year, Charlie had narrowly escaped death. That was good news, right?

She watched the faces of the people who streamed in and out of the medical center, and told herself that it was all good. Everyone she cared about had lived, and they would all get better. Everyone she loved was going to be all right. She heard the word echo in her head and drew in a sharp breath.

Ah.

She had discovered the problem.

Of course she loved Andy, even though they had only been partners a few months. Good partnerships were like that. When you trusted someone with your life, it was difficult not to love that person. And it was understandable if she had learned to love Charlie, and eventually, Alan, during the weeks she was part of the Eppes family. They were both lovable men. What she found a little harder to deal with, was the fact that Charlie had been right, when he had spoken to her in the trauma center.

She was in love with Don Eppes.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don was amazed by the difference a few hours could make.

Once the nurse had cleaned him up and convinced him to use the urinal; once he had gotten some breakfast in him – food that stayed where it was supposed to; once he had been reassured by his father about Charlie's condition a few dozen more times; and once he had faded off for yet another nap, things started looking much better. The next time he awoke, he had been more pragmatic. He had allowed the nurse and his father to help him sit up slowly. He had taken his time acclimating to a vertical universe, and now was actually sitting in a chair next to his bed, talking to his father and anxiously watching the door.

Just as Don was going to ask again where Charlie was, the door swung open, and two orderlies maneuvered a gurney inside. As they pushed past him on the way to the other bed, Don caught a glimpse of his brother. He was lying on his side, curled under the blankets as if he was cold. His half-mast, heavy-lidded eyes had locked on Don's as he rolled past, and he had smiled groggily.

Don had smiled back.

It was amazing the difference a few hours could make.


	23. Soul Food

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel **

**Chapter 23: Soul Food**

While Alan had been happy to see Charlie brought into the room, and even happier to sense that his sons were at least a little more comfortable with each other now, he was not happy at his sons' physical state. Especially Charlie's. Donnie had progressed to navigating the few steps to the bathroom, with assistance, and sitting up in the chair for longer periods of time, but he still slept too much, in Alan's opinion. Well, perhaps it wasn't the quantity, so much as the quality, of sleep. It was an insistent, almost living thing that would claim Don in the middle of a sentence, and seldom left him alone for long.

Alan did not want to imply that Don was less important in the grand scheme of things, so he was careful to be alert to those times Don was awake. He would sit beside him then and engage him in a conversation. It didn't really matter much what it was about, since Alan knew Don would never last until the natural end of it anyway.

They discussed his prognosis as far as being able to return to field duty eventually. Both men were concerned about that – for different reasons. Don was afraid it might not happen, depressed and worried by how slowly he was recovering from this head injury (compared to concussions he had suffered twice in the past). Alan was worried that he shouldn't do it even if he was allowed, and that his oldest son was definitely pushing his luck in the head injury department. Not to mention the fact that Alan would be privately ecstatic if Don got out of law enforcement altogether…talk about an accident waiting to happen.

They talked of more inane things. Alan's consulting partnership and whether or not he should "retire" again. The unseasonably warm weather, even for L.A., this winter. Alan got Don's opinion – or, more accurately, half of it, before he fell asleep again – on the feasibility of remodeling the house to include a small second-story deck on the back. Charlie had once suggested it, complete with a staircase from the ground and French doors that opened onto the deck from Alan's room, so he could have his own entrance. Don had gingerly shared his and Charlie's plans to spend a week in Maui. He skipped over involved details of exactly why, concentrating instead on the possibility of all three of them taking a vacation together some time the next year; after everybody was healthy, again. Pleased with the idea, Alan had joined his son in a quick look toward the sleeping Charlie, and when he had looked back, Don was out again.

He took advantage of Don's frequent lapses into la-la land to head across the room and stand over Charlie, or sit next to his bed. Charlie had been released from ICU with a temperature of 102, and Alan could tell from the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the flush of his cheeks that it had not improved any in the hours he had been here. That was worrisome, and Charlie's sleeping was also disconcerting, just like Don's was. Alan wasn't surprised at the sleep itself – Charlie had a fever, and was still medicated for pain, after all. Again, it was the quality of sleep. It was completely anti-Charlie. He slept heavily, not moving or restless as he nearly always was. He didn't even wake when Alan bathed his face with a cool cloth, or a nurse would come to take a new set of vitals.

The constant see-saw between his boys was exhausting Alan, draining him quickly. When the physician he and Don shared came back late in the afternoon for a check, he had found Don awake, but had frowned at finding Alan at all. He had threatened to re-admit him if he didn't go home and get some rest. Don had turned concerned eyes on him and Alan had opened his mouth to protest, just as the door opened, admitting Megan. She smiled at everyone, not realizing she was interrupting anything.

She caught on quickly, however, the second Don shot her a look and spoke to the doctor. "He's leaving now. This is his ride. Megan came to take my dad home."

Alan glared at him, and Megan stammered a little as she got into character. "R-r-right," she confirmed, smiling again. "All set, Alan?" In truth, she was a little disappointed. She had been looking forward to spending a few minutes with Don and Charlie, before she got back to the office. She wasn't at all sure she would have time to get back here, today. Still, family needs sometimes required adjustments – as she hoped Larry understood, since she was not taking Alan home to sit alone in the Craftsman, but planting him in her guest room. While he settled, she would summon Larry to come over and play chess with Alan until he fell asleep, so he would miss his long-anticipated visit with his fellow professor, as well.

Charlie, dead to the world for the last several hours, chose that moment to shift slightly in his sleep, moaning lowly. All eyes shot to his bed, where he stopped moving, but still didn't awaken. Alan looked back at Don, then, eyes full of heartbreak, looking as if someone had just shoved an icepick in his chest. "I don't want to go," he said pitifully, and Don actually felt his own eyes water.

He tried to reassure his father. "Dad, he's just sleeping anyway…and I'm here with him. You heard the doctor, I've got the all-clear to move around a little more. I'll stop falling asleep all the time if I get more action." He looked at the blanket that covered him, ruefully. "Maybe."

The physician cleared his throat. "I believe I said, 'as tolerated', Mr. Eppes." He turned his attention to Alan. "And I am not in the habit of making empty threats, other Mr. Eppes. I will readmit you, if you do not go and get yourself some rest. You're recovering from a head injury yourself, I might remind you." His tone softened. Contrary to popular opinion, he was not a man without a heart. "As you know, your other son is not my patient. But Dr. Ellison is a fine physician. Rest is the best thing for him, now."

Alan sighed, and looked at Megan. Then he leaned over and kissed Don on the forehead, and crossed the few feet to do the same with Charlie. His lips lingered on the hot skin for a moment as one hand absently smoothed some errant curls. Then he straightened, turned around and sighed again. "All right," he said to Megan as morosely as if she were taking him to an interrogation room. "I guess I'm ready, now."

……………………………………………………………………………………

Around dinner time, a nurse told Don that Charlie's temperature had decreased to 101.8. Not exactly a stellar improvement, but at least this time his brother woke up when the poking and prodding started. Don had wobbled his way across the room – which suddenly seemed a lot farther away than it looked – and was sitting in the chair near Charlie's bed.

The nurse helped Charlie reposition himself from his side to his back. Don watched his face, and saw unmistakeable pain there, even though Charlie was making an effort to suppress his grunts and groans. The nurse finished her work by withdrawing a needle from her pocket, uncapping it, and heading for the IV port. Don's own IV had been removed earlier, but Charlie was still receiving antibiotics through his.

She hesitated. "This is Demerol, but I'm sure I could get Dr. Ellison to order some more Morphine."

Charlie frowned. "No," he shook his head. "This is fine."

She still paused. "Are you sure? This will take a few minutes to kick in."

Charlie confirmed with a brief nod and closed his eyes. The nurse looked at Don, shrugged, and administered the drug. Soon after, she left. Don thought Charlie was asleep again until he heard his little brother's voice, still raspy but closer to normal. "Where's Dad?"

Don glanced up quickly from watching his hands wring in his lap. Maybe too quickly, since a wave of dizziness threatened again. He squeezed his own eyes shut, glad that Charlie wasn't looking at him, and then opened them, forcing himself to sound normal. "Megan took him home." He actually grinned, then. "Or, knowing Megan, maybe to her place."

Charlie released the ghost of a smile himself, and his eyes popped open. He stared at the ceiling, quiet. Don could tell from the lines under the stubble on his face that the pain med hadn't kicked in yet. He tried to think of what he could say to distract him. Alan had driven Don crazy half the day with his endless talk about nothing, so he didn't want to bring up the weather. On the other hand, he understood his father's reluctance to be the one who brought up why they were all in the hospital. He didn't want to get Charlie upset, either. Charlie moved his leg minutely and winced, hissing a little.

Don felt his pain, and said the first thing that came to mind. "Hey. Do I remember…did you tell me…was that phone call the other day from Amita a good-bye thing?" _Shit. That was going to help Charlie not get upset._

Charlie's head turned slightly on the pillow and he blinked at Don. "Right."

He sounded calm enough when he said it, but Don had already decided he was going back to the weather. "So, it's been really warm, this winter…"

"Do you know what Mom said, once?", Charlie suddenly asked, effectively shutting Don up. Charlie glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the ceiling. "When she and I were at Princeton. Larry had become a good friend. Plus, he was tutoring me in quantum physics at the time. Anyway, when he got to the apartment one evening he was clearly upset. Someone he had been close to since his own college days had been killed in a mountain-climbing accident that day. I was only 15 years old. I just sat on the couch and didn't say anything while he talked to Mom. Larry kept coming back to his friend's youth. They were about as old then as I am now; maybe a little younger." He paused to yawn, and Don found himself hoping Charlie didn't fall asleep before the story ended. Charlie rarely shared stories about Princeton, and, Don realized with a slight start, was sharing stories about Mom even less, these days. Charlie started up again. "Larry kept saying his friend was too young for this to happen, his life had been too short. Mom fed him hot chocolate and let him talk, and then she said it."

"What?", Don encouraged in a whisper.

A far-away look came over Charlie's face, and Don knew he was back in that tiny apartment at Princeton, hearing his mother's voice. "She said life is not about the number of breaths we take. Life is about the moments that take our breath away."

Don sat with that silently for a moment, until Charlie continued, sounding a little embarrassed. "You know, that's one reason I did it." Don studied him, not understanding. Charlie may have sensed that, and clarified. "The whole 'P vs. NP' thing. She was always so proud of my achievements in math. All my awards, she would gush for days, and was always in the audience when I accepted anything. She knew about the seven 'unsolveable problems'. When she read about them in the newspaper one morning, she teased that I should probably give someone else a crack at one of them, and asked if she could use some of the prize money to buy a new dress for the ceremony. When she started to get really sick..." Charlie's voice trailed off, and for a moment, Don feared the fascinating story might be over. Then Charlie took it up again, his voice tired. "It was stupid, I know that now. But I thought, if I could do it, and do it in time, I could give her another one of those moments. When you came out to the garage to tell me she was gone, and I knew that I had failed, and wasted all that time…"

The icepick that had plunged itself into Alan earlier had found Don. He looked at his lap and blinked furiously. _Charlie...,_ he thought to himself, unable to come up with anything more concrete. _Charlie…._

His brother was strangely unaffected by the story. "Anyway," he continued, eyes drifting shut. "Amita and I, we never really had that. We didn't take each other's breath away, you know? I think we both deserve to find someone who does."

Don looked back at Charlie, not sure he could force words out against the constriction in his throat. "You do," he finally managed.

Charlie opened his eyes again, and looked seriously at Don. "You have that with Colleen, don't you? She takes your breath away?"

Don's mouth dropped open. He was set to protest, but found that he couldn't.

Charlie yawned again, his eyes closing once more. "Should probably do something about that," he observed drowsily.

Soon, he was asleep. Don sat in the chair next to Charlie's bed, long after the room grew dim and he became cold. His little brother was an amazing, observant, full-of-surprises, bonafide genius…and sometimes…sometimes, he could take Don's breath away.


	24. Going Off the High Dive

**Title: How Did This Happen, The Sequel **

**Chapter 24: Going Off the High Dive**

By morning, Charlie's temperature had dropped just enough for him to stay awake for longer periods of time. Unfortunately, this made him more aware of each one of his injuries, and he was decidedly more cranky. He fretted and complained that he was too hot. Moments later, he was shivering, whining about being too cold. His restlessness was back, and he kept trying to find a comfortable position in the bed. Unfortunately, the constant movement only excaberated his injuries. He alternated between snapping at Don and Alan and refusing to speak.

On one of his excursions to his brother's bedside, Don studied his face while Alan tried to plump the pillows "just right" – again – and strongly suspected there was more at work here than just the physical. He surprised himself when he was the one who brought it up first. Even he would have put his money on Alan. "Charlie…I hope you're..." He sighed. "I mean, I know you're not. Okay, I mean. About what happened." Alan glanced at him with an unreadable expression on his face, and Don went on quickly. "But I want you to know that you were…indescribable. In a good way. I'm so, so sorry about all they did to you..." Don's voice threatened to break, and he cleared his throat. "You did nothing wrong. Not seven months ago with Martinez, and not a few days ago with his crazy family. You have a lot to deal with, I understand that." Don hesitated, briefly, and decided he might as well finish what he started. "Maybe you should talk to someone, like your doctor keeps suggesting."

Charlie and Alan had become statues. Don could swear neither of them was breathing. Charlie had closed his eyes halfway through Don's sentence fragments, and Alan was still staring at him as if he had grown another head. Don was almost sorry he had ever started this, but there was no turning back now. Since he was the only other one with his eyes open, Don looked at his father. "I'm just saying…a couple of times, both in Albuquerque and here in L.A., when things get really hairy at work, the brass has made me go to the department shrink." He sighed. "I always fight it, of course, so I guess I have no business suggesting that Charlie consider it."

Alan found his voice, although he still looked stunned. "N-not at all, Donnie. I'm sure you know what you're talking about; dealing with this kind of violence on a regular basis. Of course, I think it would be a good idea for both of you to..."

Charlie interrupted him. "Are there curtains, or shades or something you can pull on the window? I'm getting a headache."

Alan shrugged at Don and studied Charlie, whose eyes were still closed. "Is it a migraine, Charlie? I can ask them to get you some Imitrex."

"Don't want people sticking me, anymore," Charlie pouted. "My foot itches. I'm tired of all this noise…so much talking…. It's hot in here."

And so it continued, most of the day. Don was relieved the two times a nurse supervised short walks down the hall. He loved Charlie, but the kid had never been good at 'sick', and his crabbiness was driving Don crazy. That resurrected his guilt, and his own emotions were a seesaw. He couldn't decide if he felt badly because he couldn't make Charlie feel better, or if he should slap him. Deep down, he realized that his own helplessness in the situation probably wasn't being dealt with too well. He really wished the poor guy could sleep all day like he had the day before, instead of just lying there feeling miserable.

By mid-afternoon they were all miserable. When Larry came by – obstenibly to visit Charlie, but actually to talk Alan into spending another evening in Megan's guest room – the two elder Eppes were more than happy to vacate the room and give them some time alone. Alan walked slowly beside Don, to the nearby sunroom. Don was still listing to one side, but everyone insisted that was normal, and would improve with time. Alan bit his tongue and didn't mention it.

The two actually started a game of checkers on the board they found on one of the tables. It was a relief neither one was comfortable admitting, getting away from Charlie for a while. Don was hopeful he would be released the next day, and watched his father carefully. He didn't want Alan to take him home and go into Jewish Father overdrive if he wasn't up to it, yet.

They were only halfway through the game when Larry tracked them down in the sunroom. He smiled and joined them at the table. A little surprised, Alan looked at his watch. "You didn't stay very long. Is everything all right?"

Larry chewed on a fingernail as he dragged out a chair and took a seat. He placed his hands on the table, splaying the fingers wide. "Yes. Charles did suggest that I limit myself to ten-syllable words once in a while, and he couldn't seem to decide what he wanted. First water, which he never drank, then another blanket, then the removal of all the bed coverings…he seems a bit…testy."

Don groaned lightly. "Yeah. He's been like that all day."

Alan leapt to his youngest's defense. "He's in pain, and still running a fever. Exhausted."

"Nobody's saying he doesn't have a right to be a little…off, Dad," Don assured him.

"Most certainly not," chimed in Larry. "He's actually asleep, now. Perhaps he will feel better after a brief nap."

Alan relaxed a little, happy to hear that Charlie was finally getting some sleep. With Larry acting as referee, he and Don finished their game of checkers. Then, both Don and Larry ganged up on Alan, and he was persuaded to let Charlie sleep as long as he could, and return to Megan's apartment for a few hours of rest himself. Larry finally had to promise that all three of them would return for evening visiting hours, later.

Don walked them to the door of the sunroom, hugged his father good-bye, and then turned around to go back and sit in one of the chairs by the window. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to the room and wake up Charlie. There was a television in here; he might look for a game, in a few minutes.

He sighed as he sank into the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The afternoon sun reflected off the window and warmed him cozily, and before he knew it, he was dozing himself. He wasn't really sure how long he slept, but it was a more natural sleep for him. Sitting up, half-aware even while he snored lightly, a sudden movement off to his left caused him to jerk awake and automatically reach for his service weapon. He blinked, confused not to find it, and heard a husky chuckle. He looked up to find himself staring at Colleen.

"Guess you've been an agent too long," she said in greeting. "Although if it's any comfort, I do the same thing. I can't tell you how many close calls my cat has had."

Don just stared at her, a little non-plussed. Seeing her face, hearing that voice, he had to admit to himself that he had been dreaming about her.

Colleen shifted awkwardly, looking a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry I woke you. I wasn't even sure it was you, when I saw you from the corridor. I was just coming in to check. When I saw you were sleeping, I was going to leave, really…" She stopped talking, feeling vaguely as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She had actually been watching Don sleep for almost five minutes.

"It's okay," he mumbled, finding it difficult to speak, for some reason.

She shifted again. "Well. I won't keep you. I was just down in your room, and Charlie was sleeping too, so I didn't disturb him. The nurse said it's been a difficult day for him." Don just nodded. Feeling more and more like a fool, Colleen went on. "I just came to say good-bye to him. Andy is stabilized now, and his wife is here... I need to get back to the office. I'm on the redeye to D.C. tonight. Um…I was hoping maybe you could tell him I stopped by?"

"Of course," Don managed to squeak out, trapped in her deep blue eyes like a golf ball in a sand trap.

Colleen smiled, and Don felt it. She was taking his breath away. He almost missed it when she thanked him, said a brief good-bye and started quickly for the door. Shaking himself a little, Don stood as quickly as he could without falling down, and turned where he stood. Just before Colleen reached the hallway, he found his voice. "Wait!", he called. "Colleen!"

She hesitated, back still to him, but then turned around and looked at Don curiously. "I'm sorry, I should have asked. Do you need something?"

As a child, Don had always been the type to jump into the deep end of the pool; the one who ripped a bandage off fast, or ran headlong into the cold ocean. Back then, he had been guided more by passion than by reason. Over the years he had learned to suppress that side of his personality, but now he gathered more courage than it took to face a bank full of armed robbers, and took the plunge again. "It's possible I'm in love with you," he said. Perhaps he was a bit out of practice.

Still, it was enough to drain the color from Colleen's face. She took a deep breath, and crossed her arms over her chest. She lifted an eyebrow. "It's possible that I feel the same way about you," she retaliated.

Don felt as if he was in a tennis match, all of a sudden. He lobbed one back. "I think we should explore that. I think we should not let each other get away, again."

Colleen angled her head and pursed her gorgeous lips for a second. She seemed to be considering. Finally, she straightened her head back up and grinned. "And people say Charlie is the smart one."


	25. A Man Walks Into a Bar

**Title: How Did This Happen, the Sequel**

**Chapter 25: A Man Walks Into A Bar**

**_SIX WEEKS LATER…_**

After descending from the third floor of the medical building, Charlie stepped off the elevator and approached the main lobby, limping on his cane. His appointment had not taken as long as he had been expecting, and he had almost 45 minutes to wait before Alan picked him up. Of course he could call his father's cell, and tell him he was finished early. He knew his dad would rearrange his own schedule and make this his next stop; Alan had wanted to wait for him in the first place, but Charlie had insisted he would be fine. He was tired of being such a drag on the family, and he knew Alan had a lot of errands to finish up before dinner, tonight.

Even though he had gone back to work on a reduced schedule when Winter Break had ended, and the doctor had told him earlier that week that he was cleared for as much activity as he felt he could handle now, Charlie was tired. He suspected that had more to do with the nature of today's appointment than anything else. It was exhausting sitting in a psychiatrist's office for 50 minutes, divulging just enough information to keep her happy. He had only agreed to go in the first place because it meant so much to Don and his father. They had each come to him separately, and offered to go with him, even.

He understood their viewpoint. If their positions were reversed, he would certainly be worried about their emotional health. Then again, Don killed people all the time – well, more than once, anyway – so their positions were more or less the same, on that count. Charlie sniggered quietly. He _did_ worry about Don's emotional health, too. Not as much, lately. Don's demons were being successfully held at bay. Charlie wished that his father and brother understood that he was coming to grips with his own, as well. He just needed to deal with it in his own way, and his own time.

He looked at his watch, again. Because it fit better into his father's schedule, Charlie had arrived almost a full hour early for his appointment. The doctor had seen him in the waiting room, informed him that her previous patient had cancelled, and whisked him into his session early. That was why today was especially exhausting. He hadn't really had time to rehearse, first, and figure out beforehand just what crumbs he could get away with tossing today. He sighed, relieved again that he had only agreed to do this for two months. Alan and Don had accepted the compromise, when he promised to re-evaluate at that time.

He stood again and headed for the street. Maybe a walk, a soda somewhere, would rejuvenate him a little. His primary care physician had said walking was good for his leg anyway, and the more he did it, the sooner he could lose the cane. Once out on the sidewalk, Charlie drew his jacket a little tighter around him and started walking. There was a chilly wind today, so he hoped he found somewhere to sit and have a soda, soon. He wanted to be relaxed and friendly, and not cause anyone to worry tonight, at Don's birthday dinner.

He smiled to himself, thinking of their guests. It would be the first time since what he had come to think of as "The Incident" that Don's entire team, and Larry, had come by the house for a social gathering. Don was still staying at the house, even though he had gone back to light duty a week ago. In fact, he had let the lease on his place go, and put most of his stuff in storage. Charlie hoped and suspected it was because he was waiting for Colleen's transfer to the L.A. unit of the DEA to come through, so they could get a place together. She had already come back twice for long weekends, and Don had added more minutes to his cell phone plan. Once he had started teaching again, it became a struggle for Charlie to get Don off the Internet so he could use his computer himself. This would be a happy birthday for Don, even though with it mid-week the way it was, Colleen couldn't be here. She was flying in again Friday, this time on business. She was actually on her way to a case in San Diego, but had arranged a 48-hour layover in L.A. Something told him Don would get more presents this weekend.

He frowned a little, thinking of Andy Carter, continuing his trek down the sidewalk. After a couple of weeks, Andy had been flown back to D.C. himself, and Georgetown had taken over his case. Charlie looked forward to an update on his condition.

Stopping for a moment, huddled against the wind, Charlie looked around. The only place within sight that he could see to sit down and get something to drink was the bar just ahead of him. He shrugged, and started forward. He had no intention of showing up at Don's party drunk, but bars sold soda, right? At least it was shelter from the weather. Besides, he didn't want to wander too far away from the medical building. The last thing anybody needed was for him not to make it back on time. If Alan showed up and he wasn't waiting for him, the party would be over before it began.

Besides the bartender, who handed Charlie a soda without comment, there were only two other people in the bar in mid-afternoon. One was someone who looked as if he would be more comfortable in the gutter outside, and Charlie wondered how long he had been sitting there drinking. Judging from the shot glasses upside down in front of him, it may have been awhile. He nursed his current shot and ignored Charlie, who grabbed his soda and started for one of the three tables in the small bar. A woman, slightly plump, sat over a plate of tacos at the center one.

She was wiping her mouth, and when she lowered her napkin she smiled at him. Charlie didn't know quite what happened when he suddenly became a little unsteady, holding the soda with one hand, and his cane with the other. "I don't mind if you join me," she offered. "Unless you'd rather be alone."

Well, yeah, he had wanted to be alone for a while before his father picked him up. He had wanted to compose himself for the party. He found himself not wanting to, anymore, and also wondering what her eyes looked like outside in the light. If they were this green and sparkling in a dingy bar, they must be incredible.

He limped to the table and set down his soda, lowering himself carefully into a chair. She smiled again, and something slammed him into it. "I'm Debbie," she said, sticking out her hand. "I'm an office nurse in the medical building just down the block. I take kind-of a late lunch. You don't mind if I eat in front of you?"

Charlie shook her hand. It was warm, and soft, and comfort, and her handshake was strong. He was reluctant to sever the connection, which was odd; he wasn't usually much of a toucher. "Please," he assured her. "I don't want to interrupt your lunch. My name is Charlie. I just came from the med building. I thought I'd have a soda while I'm waiting for my ride."

She didn't even ask who his appointment was with, or try to figure out what was wrong with him. Instead, she picked up a taco in her hands and looked at him conspiratorially. "Charlie, I know what this place looks like, but Johnny makes the best tacos in L.A. And that's saying something." She took a huge bite, chewed with her eyes closed, and hummed in pleasure. Charlie found himself fascinated. Her eyes popped back open and she laughed. "I know whereof I speak, by the way. As you can tell, I've had my share of good tacos."

Charlie smiled with her, although she didn't really qualify as overweight, in his opinion. "Don't malign yourself," he chided gently. "To me, you look like someone it would be a pleasure to hold." _Good grief_. Had he just said that? Charlie would have been sure that his cola was spiked with something, if he had drunk any yet.

His face flamed red, and she giggled. She looked him over. "You look a little scrawny, yourself. Like a stiff wind could take you."

He played with the sweating glass before him. "Hard winter."

She nodded, a flash of sympathy barely registering in her eyes before it was gone. "That can happen. My widowed mother lives with me, and she had pneumonia twice this winter. I had to take almost two weeks off work during our busiest time of year, so I could take care of her. My sister wanted to come and help, but it's difficult. She has a really dangerous and stressful job, herself. She's a firefighter in Oregon!", she finished proudly.

"That's…that's amazing," Charlie answered, finding it truly so.

Debbie nodded, chewing another bite of taco. She swallowed and continued her story. "And married, too! She actually has a seven-uear-old son. She's one of a select few of female firefighters in the country who also have traditional families." She blushed, a little. "Sorry. We're just really proud of her. You know what that's like."

"I do," Charlie confirmed. "My older brother is in federal law enforcement. The things he deals with, every day…." He looked down at his soda, trying to forget exactly how much he knew, now, about things Don dealt with. "Well," he finished lamely, "my dad and I are really proud of him, too."

The woman frowned a little and began to chase down stray lettuce with a fork. "So what do you do, Charlie?"

He glanced back up. "Oh. I teach. At CalSci. Applied Mathematics, mostly."

She shuddered. "I could have used you during my pharmacology courses." He smiled, even though her steady stare was a little disconcerting.

"What?", he finally asked.

She seemed to come out of a trance, and grinned apologetically. "I was just wondering how a math professor has such a hard winter that he ends up in a dive bar in the middle of the afternoon."

Charlie sighed, and smiled slightly. "You have no idea," he answered.

She pushed her half-full plate away and leaned back a little in her chair. She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled. "I have all afternoon," she offered, then amended herself. "At least until my lunch hour is over."

"What if it takes longer than that?", Charlie surprised himself by saying. Seemed he was just full of surprises, today. A ray of sun suddenly carved its way through the dirty window and fell over the dingy table, glistening off dark curls that fell slightly beyond her shoulders.

She smiled again, her eyes sparkling like jade in the sunlight. "Something tells me we can work that out," she said, and Charlie felt his heart constrict. Confused, he didn't understand at first what was happening. Then he heard his mother's voice in his head, and his eyes widened a little when understanding found him.

Debbie was taking his breath away.

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END, Part II

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**A/N: And there you have it: FraidyCat gave each boy a woman. (She may be saving Alan for herself, having always had a thing for older men.) If Tanager36 is anywhere out there, credit for the taco lady begins with her. I do not promise a "Part III"; neither do I deny the possibility. Thanks for reading!**


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